So I'm staying at the lovely cottage of my even lovelier friend. We have just had a late Sunday breakfast in the garden, surrounded by trees and horses. In the fields there are deer and owls, hiding wherever deer and owls hide. But we have seen them before, and will again no doubt. Just knowing they are there is magic. The sky is a lovely clear blue with white clouds and it's fresh and cool. Heaven on earth.
I have just eaten, made by my own fair hands, a double fried egg sandwich with tomato sauce and black pepper, washed down with a very strong coffee. Delicious. All those calories and cholesterol. Yum. (So sue me). And the conversation has turned to what will we do later on? Agreement has been reached on both sides that going for a walk and a pint is the plan. So where to go? Well this is where it gets interesting, and is the whole point of this blog today.
We have two choices. Two pubs, in two different directions. We can walk up the road to the Bush, or down the lane to the Cock. Yes. That's the choice. The Bush or the Cock. I kid you not dear reader.
Isn't that such a lovely choice. I'm going to say it again. The Bush or the Cock. For a pint.
And what's tickling my childish fancy right now is just that. How utterly childish of me, on such a lovely day, to find it funny and for it to make me laugh. How Carry On. How Benny Hill. How Navy Lark and Round The Horne. How Sid James and Kenneth Williams and more besides. I'm 53 but have the mentality of a 13 year old schoolboy. And how much genuine pleasure that is giving me right now is just so lovely. I genuinely love it and I genuinely could not care less. How puerile. How pathetic. How good and fun it is. Joyful. I'm so glad I haven't 'grown up' (and please God I never do).
And to make matters even better (or probably worse from your point of view) the Cock is actually the Cock Inn. Yes the Cock Inn. (Oh joy of joys). I have a fantasy of opening a pub right next to it and calling it the Cock Out and imagining the discussions people could have about which one to visit. 'Where shall we go this evening my darling, the Cock Inn or the Cock Out. Or we could have a pint at the Cock Inn then another at the Cock Out. Inn and Out. Cock. Cock Inn and Cock Out.
Snigger. Chortle. Guffaw.
And still no decision has been made because this is where I am right now. Being childish. Gloriously and defiantly and oh so happily childish.
Saturday, 12 July 2014
A very lovely traditionally middle class couple who I am friends with were incensed recently when their equally middle class neighbours put up a fence that they say encroached on their land and blocked the sun from their much loved and very well manicured lawn and plants.
Garden wars alert!
Now I do sympathise and agreed that some dialogue needed to take place, but try as best as I can to keep out of other peoples disagreements. I had a feeling this would spiral though, knowing how strongly they followed the maxim 'An Englishwoman's home is her castle' (Did I mention they were strong feminists as well?).
It all came to a head though and I was forced to intervene when I called round earlier and found them all outside, shouting and screaming at each other, almost foaming at the mouths. They had, as they say, 'lost it', and I felt they were going to come to blows so I had to tell them all to just stop and calm down.
For goodness sake I said, is it worth it over a simple fence? Honestly, it was bordering on wisteria!