It's also raining: that's news?
Daughter and grandson went home yesterday. Granddaughter was put on the train at Long Buckby this morning where nothing much was happening. You can't expect much more of Long Buckby.
"I liked the old steam trains with doors with handles and windows that slid up and down" I remarked to the Guard. When I was five my mother put me on the train in the Guard's van at Aylesbury to Leamington Spa; change at Princes Risborough and Banbury: they wouldn't do that these days."
"You wouldn't get in the Guard's van these days" he said; "only bicycles".
What a glorious adventurous world it was that has been lost to small boys.
We were lucky yesterday - it didn't rain and we managed to do bank holiday things: car boot sale - not me and Jack, the others - and walking in the bluebell woods.
Daughter's description of boot sale, from her blog, attached for anyone who doesn't know what a boot sale is, which may be an Eskimo in Outer Mongolia. Feeble pensioner vouches for truth of story which I enjoyed.
Three generations are off to a boot sale in search of bargains. At the gate is a man collecting ‘contributions’. All a bit vague but I drop in 50p.
Where shall we park my good man?
Over there, says the collector of vague contributions, pointing some miles away.
What about that space there, I ask nodding in the direction of a handy spot just in front?
That’s for the disabled
What about my mother?
Oh, I can manage says tyrant mother who has just assumed the guise of the frail and feeble.
Take that spot then, collector of tonight’s beer money says guiltily.
We park and mother nips out of the car, clutches the arm of her grand-daughter and limps off.
Can he see us asks rapidly aging mother?
No.
Well, let go of me then she says, galloping away to the first stall.And by the way, what are we going to put all our purchases in,she asks? I scurry back to the car to retrieve a few dozen bags.
Perusing a stall full of nothing, I spot a number of white umbrellas.They could be handy for the wedding, I suggest to the bride-to-be. This is tricky territory. Rain is, of course, forbidden on the day of the nuptials. Nonetheless, one can’t control everything.
How many umbrellas are there asks my mother? A quick count on behalf of the stall-holder: ten.
How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
A fiver replies increasingly intimidated umbrella purveyor. I might have some more in the van.
A quick search results in the discovery of a further fourteen.
How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
Eight pounds plus the sack says terrified stall-holder.
Done says feeble pensioner. You certainly were my man. Twenty-four brand new umbrellas for eight quid. Bargain. We head back to the car with a large log basket, a smaller plant basket, an assortment of glass bottles, a book and twenty four white umbrellas.
You’d better hand that lot over I say to my mother. That man with the collection bucket is still up there.
Hang on then, she says. I’ll start limping.
I am shocked to discover that I am married to the type of person who claims disability benefits whilst climbing Everest.
"What have you got on today Grandad?" asks granddaughter.
This is the same sort of question that a Frankie and Benny's waiter, ignoring our advanced years, put to us one evening: "are you going on somewhere?"
Answer; beds to be stripped, bed linen and towels to be washed, carpets to be 'Hoovered' (why don't we say carpets to be 'Dysoned'), bathroom to be completely redecorated - well they were here for a day and a half!
But it was a nice bank holiday: we enjoyed it.
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