Have you ever wondered what happened to the five little ducks who went swimming one day, over the hill and far away? Or even how that Mummy duck felt when finally only one little duck came back? No. I haven’t either. Until now that is. I now know that two of those goddamn little ducks ended up in our garage.
Last week featured Apple Day, a celebration of all things apple (just to clarify we are talking about the crunchy variety not the tech giant), so yesterday we decided to venture to Glastonbury and participate in the National Trust’s Apple Picking Event at the foot of Glastonbury Tor. It appears though that we were a little late for it as by the time we arrived the promised apple activities (apple pressing, apple art etc) were nowhere to be seen.
J played football with Ronaldo and Messi last week. I know, quite amazing that two of the best footballers in the world were training, together, in deepest Somerset just before the start of the new season. What’s that? You don’t believe me? Oh. OK. I admit it, maybe the footballing legends weren’t actually there in person. Yes, alright, it was just a couple of kids (half the group) wearing replica shirts, but it did amuse me. It also got me thinking.
Knock. knock… knock.
The sound of a leather ball hitting the middle of a willow bat is, for me, the auditory equivalent of the smell of a bare hospital corridor carrying the aroma of antiseptic. Both have the power to take me back in time, though to very different episodes in the Life of Ryrie. Cricket, and hospital corridors, was as much part of my childhood summers as the paddling pool and my birthday were.
We are feeling particularly Christmassy this weekend after kick starting the Festive Season by bearing witness to the big Turn On in Frome. Standing in the cold, wet and windy market square in Frome Town has become as much a tradition as putting up the Christmas tree, or eating turkey. This year was particularly impressive as building projections played a part of the seasonal illumination.
I love Carnival. I suspect that the word ‘Carnival’ has conjured up images of feather clad women shaking their booties to a heavy samba beat and that’s why you’re nodding in agreement. Actually, Somerset Carnival couldn’t be further from this. The Carnival I am actually talking about is a procession of decorated tractors in November, which, let’s be honest, isn’t that conducive to feather bikinis.