There’ll be no duck race this year, after last year’s fiasco. It was Brian, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms, who first suggested a duck race, and the idea quickly caught on. Even after learning that no real ducks would be involved, the pub regulars were happy to muck in. They bought three thousand yellow plastic ducks from a place that specialised in bulk sales of yellow plastic ducks; it’s amazing what you can find in the Yellow Pages. Sales were as bouyant as the ducks themselves, thanks to the terrific prizes donated by local businesses (first prize: a free appointment with a visiting chiropodist).
When the big day arrived, crowds lined both sides of the River Whim, in eager anticipation. The water level looked low, after a dry spell, but no one was overly concerned about that. A net was stretched taut between the stanchions of the bridge - the finishing line - to catch the ducks as they completed the course. Two hundred yards upstream, where the road crosses the river, a tipper truck full of ducks was backed over the parapet. On an agreed signal, three thousand yellow ducks slid from the back of the truck and hit the water simultaneously.
The event, as a genuine race, was over there and then. The breeze, though light, was still stronger than the river’s sluggish current. Instead of rushing pell-mell downstream, in the approved manner, three thousand yellow ducks closed ranks - in a jaundiced armada - and sullenly refused to move. The breeze quickened, pushing ducks to the water margins, where they got stuck in the branches of overhanging trees.
A few spectators decided they had better things to do with their time, and left. Little kids, blessed with a low boredom threshold, demanded chips and ice cream. People started to throw stones: some to dislodge ducks, others out of mischief. Stewards in yellow tabards waded into the water and tried to hurry the ducks along. They fell over and got drenched; spectators laughed; words were exchanged. The ducks remained stubbornly uncooperative, their identical expressions no longer cute but mocking: Stepford Ducks.
A few ducks eventually crossed the finishing line, but only because they’d been thrown there. “It’s a fix”, shouted the few onlookers who hadn’t already drifted away in disillusionment. “That’s the last duck race we’ll ever go to”.
The following week the Gazette and Advertiser printed this statement from an ashen-faced duck race spokesman, who asked to remain anonymous. “It is difficult to know what to say about the shameful events of last weekend. We are stunned. The entire duck-racing community is stunned. We have witnessed many sporting disasters over the years. The abortive Grand National of 1993. Mike Tyson chewing Evander Holyfield’s ear off. Derek Pringle. But these are as nothing compared to the debacle of Whimsey’s duck race. The river level was low, making the going firmer than we - or the ducks - would have liked. Some of the spectators suggested the ducks weren’t trying, though random drug tests proved negative until we started on the crowd. After all, it was their boos and catcalls which disorientated the ducks and made them swim around in circles. I am not making excuses; no-one comes out of this fiasco with much dignity. There will be a steward’s enquiry. Heads will roll. Thank you”.
Beneath this terse statement was a display ad: “Almost 3,000 plastic ducks for sale. Nearly new. No sensible offer refused”.
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
16 Barbecue time
The warm weather is encouraging locals to forego their shopping expeditions and spend the day down by the river instead, where tiny waves lap invitingly against the pebble beach. There's an impromptu festival of belly buttons, as teenage girls compete to see who can wear the skimpiest outfit. Little kids paddle in the shallows, scattering shoals of silvery minnows. A startled moorhen skitters across the water and into the reeds. A heron takes off, laboriously, like a broken umbrella. A kingfisher flashes past. The colour of its wings - an electric blue - seems to burn itself into your retina, leaving a neon trail as it disappears downstream.
Picnic blankets are spread out, giving the grassy riverbank the appearance of a threadbare quilt. Picnics are enjoyable, in an abstract kind of way, right up to the moment that you actually open the hamper. They’re better experienced in the past (“Remember the day we had the picnic?”), or some unspecified time in the future (“wouldn’t it be great to have a picnic?”), rather than the present. Sharing a meal with insects that bite and sting is only going to end in tears.
In the gardens of Whimsey, makeshift barbecues fill the air with acrid smoke and the beguiling smell of budget burgers being cooked - or, rather, incinerated - by men who would normally baulk at grilling toast. What is it about men and barbecues? Once they've had three sunny days in a row, they’re happy to haul the barbecue out of the shed, fill it with charcoal, pour on half a can of petrol, and, with never a thought for their own safety, casually toss a match in. Then, having beaten back the flames, they can get down to the serious business of feeding the family. Everyone gets their food just the way they like it, assuming they like it charred on the outside and dangerously raw on the inside. Everybody likes to eat outdoors on a summer’s day, and the folly of buying the cheapest meat products in the supermarket freezer won’t become apparent for at least eight hours.
Picnic blankets are spread out, giving the grassy riverbank the appearance of a threadbare quilt. Picnics are enjoyable, in an abstract kind of way, right up to the moment that you actually open the hamper. They’re better experienced in the past (“Remember the day we had the picnic?”), or some unspecified time in the future (“wouldn’t it be great to have a picnic?”), rather than the present. Sharing a meal with insects that bite and sting is only going to end in tears.
In the gardens of Whimsey, makeshift barbecues fill the air with acrid smoke and the beguiling smell of budget burgers being cooked - or, rather, incinerated - by men who would normally baulk at grilling toast. What is it about men and barbecues? Once they've had three sunny days in a row, they’re happy to haul the barbecue out of the shed, fill it with charcoal, pour on half a can of petrol, and, with never a thought for their own safety, casually toss a match in. Then, having beaten back the flames, they can get down to the serious business of feeding the family. Everyone gets their food just the way they like it, assuming they like it charred on the outside and dangerously raw on the inside. Everybody likes to eat outdoors on a summer’s day, and the folly of buying the cheapest meat products in the supermarket freezer won’t become apparent for at least eight hours.
Saturday, May 23, 2020
15 Shooting the breeze
There are many kinds of silence. There's the embarrassed silence you get at breakfast in a seaside boarding house, which makes the tinkling of tea-cups seem deafening by comparison. There's the blissful silence when a migraine-inducing car alarm finally drains the battery and whines to a halt. There's the brooding silence at the heart of a marriage when love has died. But best of all are those moments when the chatter of the mind abates, when memories, ambitions and everyday worries evaporate like puddles on a hot pavement, and - however briefly - you are blessed with stillness.
There are a few precious days every year when the leaves on the trees glow with an almost hypnotic shade of green, as though lit from within. When the swallows, swifts and martins race and scream above the village, seemingly for the sheer joy of scything effortlessly through the air. When the more irritating members of the insect world have yet to muster in numbers. When almost anything seems possible. And today, is one of them. The world seems to have been washed clean by overnight rain; now the sun is shining out of a cloudless and untroubled sky. It's perfect. A buzzard flies overhead - two beats and a glide – before finding a thermal and getting into a holding pattern. It soars high over the patchwork of fields in a lazy spiral, up and up and up, until, no more than a speck, it disappears into the clouds.
There's no better time of the year to skive, loaf, dawdle, dally, hang loose, take things easy, stand and stare, shoot the breeze, twiddle our thumbs, kick our heels, and generally let the grass grow under our feet. Here in Whimsey we have learned to enjoy the lexicon of leisure. We have time to relax and ponder some of life’s knottier questions. Like “Have Wagon Wheels got smaller, or is it just that we’ve got bigger?” “Why is there a 'best by' date on sour cream?” “Why don't film censors get depraved and corrupt?” And that hardy perennial: “Why are we here... instead of, say, over there?” With some questions resisting a simple answer, we may have to admit, if pressed, that we still don’t know the way to San José…
There are a few precious days every year when the leaves on the trees glow with an almost hypnotic shade of green, as though lit from within. When the swallows, swifts and martins race and scream above the village, seemingly for the sheer joy of scything effortlessly through the air. When the more irritating members of the insect world have yet to muster in numbers. When almost anything seems possible. And today, is one of them. The world seems to have been washed clean by overnight rain; now the sun is shining out of a cloudless and untroubled sky. It's perfect. A buzzard flies overhead - two beats and a glide – before finding a thermal and getting into a holding pattern. It soars high over the patchwork of fields in a lazy spiral, up and up and up, until, no more than a speck, it disappears into the clouds.
There's no better time of the year to skive, loaf, dawdle, dally, hang loose, take things easy, stand and stare, shoot the breeze, twiddle our thumbs, kick our heels, and generally let the grass grow under our feet. Here in Whimsey we have learned to enjoy the lexicon of leisure. We have time to relax and ponder some of life’s knottier questions. Like “Have Wagon Wheels got smaller, or is it just that we’ve got bigger?” “Why is there a 'best by' date on sour cream?” “Why don't film censors get depraved and corrupt?” And that hardy perennial: “Why are we here... instead of, say, over there?” With some questions resisting a simple answer, we may have to admit, if pressed, that we still don’t know the way to San José…
Thursday, May 21, 2020
14 Best Kept Village
You can tell a lot about people from the state of their gardens. For example, if you can see an abandoned mattress and an old car propped up on piles of housebricks where the wheels ought to be, then you’re probably not in Whimsey at all. We have standards here. Not rules, exactly, though anyone with an untamed garden is likely to get a discreet visit from Hayden, in his capacity as president of the Keep Whimsey Tidy committee, with some timely words of advice.
Back in in 1992 Whimsey came third in the Best Kept Village competition: a success still remembered fondly, and why not? After all, in Formula 1 third would count as a podium finish; we would have been spraying each other with champagne. Instead there’s just a small certificate commemorating the achievement, which, when framed, served to hide a damp patch on the wall in the village hall. Third was good, but we can’t rest on our laurels. As Hayden keeps reminding any back-sliders, we’re never going to win the competition if we don’t mow that lawn/trim that hedge/get rid of all those garden gnomes (delete as appropriate).
Hayden organises his own garden like a military campaign. He has cowed nature into submission with hard work, an iron will and some industrial-strength weed-killer, bought ‘under the counter’ from the local garden centre. ‘Agent Orange’ seems an odd name for a harmless defoliant, but never mind. The flowers in Hayden’s garden do as they’re told, or else. His lupins stand straight and tall, like guardsmen at attention. The lawn is pristine - the stripes made by his lawnmower as straight as the creases in a sailor’s trousers. Hayden won’t even let you walk on the sacred turf until you’ve taken your shoes off.
The garden reflects the man, and any weed that has the temerity to grow where it’s not wanted is ruthlessly terminated. The war against wildness is never won; there are always new battles to be fought. Gardening brings Hayden no pleasure whatsoever. It never occurs to him to relax in a deckchair, with a glass of iced lemonade at hand, and just enjoy his handiwork. He only ever sees the flaws: another aphid, another blackspot on the rose bush, another daisy on the lawn.
Back in in 1992 Whimsey came third in the Best Kept Village competition: a success still remembered fondly, and why not? After all, in Formula 1 third would count as a podium finish; we would have been spraying each other with champagne. Instead there’s just a small certificate commemorating the achievement, which, when framed, served to hide a damp patch on the wall in the village hall. Third was good, but we can’t rest on our laurels. As Hayden keeps reminding any back-sliders, we’re never going to win the competition if we don’t mow that lawn/trim that hedge/get rid of all those garden gnomes (delete as appropriate).
Hayden organises his own garden like a military campaign. He has cowed nature into submission with hard work, an iron will and some industrial-strength weed-killer, bought ‘under the counter’ from the local garden centre. ‘Agent Orange’ seems an odd name for a harmless defoliant, but never mind. The flowers in Hayden’s garden do as they’re told, or else. His lupins stand straight and tall, like guardsmen at attention. The lawn is pristine - the stripes made by his lawnmower as straight as the creases in a sailor’s trousers. Hayden won’t even let you walk on the sacred turf until you’ve taken your shoes off.
The garden reflects the man, and any weed that has the temerity to grow where it’s not wanted is ruthlessly terminated. The war against wildness is never won; there are always new battles to be fought. Gardening brings Hayden no pleasure whatsoever. It never occurs to him to relax in a deckchair, with a glass of iced lemonade at hand, and just enjoy his handiwork. He only ever sees the flaws: another aphid, another blackspot on the rose bush, another daisy on the lawn.
Saturday, May 16, 2020
13 Incomers
When a new family moved into Whimsey, we hoped they would take to village life. No such luck. Having made his money in the city - something to do with 'business to business IT solutions', apparently, whatever that might be - Montgomery Blythe decided to uproot his family and move to the country. He wanted his kids to have ponies and breathe clean country air, rather than choke on exhaust fumes in town. His wife, Pristine, imagined herself floating around the village in a floral print dress, buying home-made bread from a real village shop and bringing her organisational skills to a handful of local charities. Mr Blythe himself imagined entertaining business clients in style, and joining the 'hunting set’: sending small game-birds to meet their maker with a pair of Purdy shotguns, in the company of other men of standing in the local community. He'd bought the guns already, even before he saw that the Old Manor House in Whimsey was up for sale.
The family had hardly moved in before the trouble started. They complained about the church bells which were "intrusive" and "spoiled the peace and quiet of village life". They weren't keen, either, on the pungent rural aromas, which made the children’s eyes water. They said the locals were surly, "didn't know their place" and failed to doff their caps in a deferential manner. Having accepted an invitation to join a hunting party, the newcomer shot two sheep and a beater. It was a mistake anyone could have made, though the injured man kicked up quite a fuss, long after the last of the pellets had been removed. Dr Fallowfield was sure the man would be able to sit down again before too long.
To give the family more privacy from prying eyes, Mr Blythe planted a leylandii hedge. It seemed to grow about six inches every night until an unknown assailant attacked it with a chainsaw. Mr Blythe tried to ingratiate himself with the locals by shouting "drinks all round" on a quiet night in the Farrier’s Arms, but the damage had already been done. Brian, the landlord, put him straight. “You may be a big cheese in the city”, he said, “but you don't mean anything round here”. Except he wasn't so polite.
Matters came to a head when Les 'accidentally' dumped a pile of slurry on top of Mr Blythe’s BMW. When the police failed to make an immediate arrest, the local estate agent took a phone-call from a distraught Mrs Blythe of the Old Manor House in Whimsey. The 'For Sale' sign went up the same day, and a removal van came. The Blythes left as quickly as they'd arrived. No doubt they're regaling friends in the city with tales of how their dreams of country life turned sour. Moving to the flatlands proved to be a folly too far. And we still have to find homes for two ponies.
The family had hardly moved in before the trouble started. They complained about the church bells which were "intrusive" and "spoiled the peace and quiet of village life". They weren't keen, either, on the pungent rural aromas, which made the children’s eyes water. They said the locals were surly, "didn't know their place" and failed to doff their caps in a deferential manner. Having accepted an invitation to join a hunting party, the newcomer shot two sheep and a beater. It was a mistake anyone could have made, though the injured man kicked up quite a fuss, long after the last of the pellets had been removed. Dr Fallowfield was sure the man would be able to sit down again before too long.
To give the family more privacy from prying eyes, Mr Blythe planted a leylandii hedge. It seemed to grow about six inches every night until an unknown assailant attacked it with a chainsaw. Mr Blythe tried to ingratiate himself with the locals by shouting "drinks all round" on a quiet night in the Farrier’s Arms, but the damage had already been done. Brian, the landlord, put him straight. “You may be a big cheese in the city”, he said, “but you don't mean anything round here”. Except he wasn't so polite.
Matters came to a head when Les 'accidentally' dumped a pile of slurry on top of Mr Blythe’s BMW. When the police failed to make an immediate arrest, the local estate agent took a phone-call from a distraught Mrs Blythe of the Old Manor House in Whimsey. The 'For Sale' sign went up the same day, and a removal van came. The Blythes left as quickly as they'd arrived. No doubt they're regaling friends in the city with tales of how their dreams of country life turned sour. Moving to the flatlands proved to be a folly too far. And we still have to find homes for two ponies.
Friday, May 15, 2020
12 Flattened too soon
The howling keeps Dan and Dottie awake most nights, but, fortunately, no-one else. You have to drive a mile out of the village to find the Whimsey Kennels, Cattery and Pet Cemetery. Out here, where there are no close neighbours to annoy, the yelps and caterwauls are carried away on the prevailing winds.
Dan and Dottie advertise their business as a one-stop shop for everything pet-related. They’ll deliver bulky items to your door - everything from hamster bedding to tins of butcher’s tripe. They’ll look after your dog, cat, parrot or iguana while you’re on holiday. And they’ll be there, with respect, sensitivity and the practicalities, when a favourite pet passes on. They can organise a short, non-denominational service at the graveside, a discreet bural and the siting of a small headstone. Though it’s never easy to find the right words to express the grief of losing a much-loved family pet, Dan and Dottie have years of experience. For example, on the grave of Jean’s poodle, sadly involved in a traffic accident last week, is a newly-erected stone. The inscription is a model of tact and brevity: ‘Fluffy, flattened too soon’.
Business is good, because everyone in Whimsey seems to have a dog these days. Unsurprisingly, Bob was the first to notice the upward trend. Having the occasional dog snapping at his heels is all part of a day’s work for a village postman, but now they’re everywhere. We’ve got big dogs, small dogs, friendly dogs, savage dogs, dogs that look like wolves and dogs that wait, with infinite forbearance, for a postman’s fingers to appear momentarily through the letterbox, before clamping on with needle-sharp teeth.
Though most people are responsible, some owners, too idle to take their dogs for a proper walk, just boot their pooches out of the door. This ensures that pavements are transformed into slippery skid-pans. Walking from one end of the village to the other, while avoiding the dog-shit, requires some nifty footwork; it makes people look like they're auditioning for Riverdance…
Dan and Dottie advertise their business as a one-stop shop for everything pet-related. They’ll deliver bulky items to your door - everything from hamster bedding to tins of butcher’s tripe. They’ll look after your dog, cat, parrot or iguana while you’re on holiday. And they’ll be there, with respect, sensitivity and the practicalities, when a favourite pet passes on. They can organise a short, non-denominational service at the graveside, a discreet bural and the siting of a small headstone. Though it’s never easy to find the right words to express the grief of losing a much-loved family pet, Dan and Dottie have years of experience. For example, on the grave of Jean’s poodle, sadly involved in a traffic accident last week, is a newly-erected stone. The inscription is a model of tact and brevity: ‘Fluffy, flattened too soon’.
Business is good, because everyone in Whimsey seems to have a dog these days. Unsurprisingly, Bob was the first to notice the upward trend. Having the occasional dog snapping at his heels is all part of a day’s work for a village postman, but now they’re everywhere. We’ve got big dogs, small dogs, friendly dogs, savage dogs, dogs that look like wolves and dogs that wait, with infinite forbearance, for a postman’s fingers to appear momentarily through the letterbox, before clamping on with needle-sharp teeth.
Though most people are responsible, some owners, too idle to take their dogs for a proper walk, just boot their pooches out of the door. This ensures that pavements are transformed into slippery skid-pans. Walking from one end of the village to the other, while avoiding the dog-shit, requires some nifty footwork; it makes people look like they're auditioning for Riverdance…
Thursday, May 7, 2020
11 The Whimsey run
Our rural bus service is in serious decline so go on, catch a country bus while you still can. Your driver might be Jack, who works for the local bus company (slogan: ‘Better late than never’). If so, make sure you have a supply of travel sickness pills to hand. The Whimsey run is viewed by the bus drivers as a punishment for poor time-keeping. If they want to get their regular routes back, they’ll have to follow the bus drivers’ handbook to the letter. This requires them to accelerate as fast as possible from every bus-stop, then brake equally hard at the next one - thus making the journey as uncomfortable as possible for their passengers. With a glance in the mirror and a well-timed tap-dancing routine on the gas pedal and the brake, Jack can transfer an old biddy and her tartan shopping trolley from one end of the bus to the other in less time than it takes to say “Hold tight at the back”. It’s moments like these that make a bus driver’s life worthwhile.
As soon as Jack ventures off the main road, time loses all meaning. Forget whatever you’ve read in the timetable, especially about the length of time your journey might take. Don’t be lulled into any false sense of security by the idea that the bus is only going a few miles. The country lanes around Whimsey are bereft of signs; even locals get lost. Jack has such a poor sense of direction that he has to to stop periodically and ask the passengers which way to go. On one occasion, when he ran out of petrol, Jack had a whip-round to fill the tank up.
You’ll need provisions. Imagine you’re embarking on an African safari, and pack accordingly. At the very least, you should take some refreshments for the outward leg of your journey. Wear a scarf or cravat over your face; it will help to keep out the dust and the flies and the overpowering smell of lavender water. By the time the bus rolls into Whimsey once again, having covered half of East Yorkshire, most of the passengers will be delirious. No wonder the rural routes have been re-classified as white-knuckle rides. You have been warned.
As soon as Jack ventures off the main road, time loses all meaning. Forget whatever you’ve read in the timetable, especially about the length of time your journey might take. Don’t be lulled into any false sense of security by the idea that the bus is only going a few miles. The country lanes around Whimsey are bereft of signs; even locals get lost. Jack has such a poor sense of direction that he has to to stop periodically and ask the passengers which way to go. On one occasion, when he ran out of petrol, Jack had a whip-round to fill the tank up.
You’ll need provisions. Imagine you’re embarking on an African safari, and pack accordingly. At the very least, you should take some refreshments for the outward leg of your journey. Wear a scarf or cravat over your face; it will help to keep out the dust and the flies and the overpowering smell of lavender water. By the time the bus rolls into Whimsey once again, having covered half of East Yorkshire, most of the passengers will be delirious. No wonder the rural routes have been re-classified as white-knuckle rides. You have been warned.
10 Rose Cottage
Locals were flabbergasted when the estate agents found a buyer for Rose Cottage. It had stood empty for years - due to a catalogue of structural defects - and every year that passed only made it less likely to sell. The wind had loosened the slates, and the roof was sagging like a saddle-backed horse. It was a heap, frankly; you could have doubled its value simply by screwing a satellite dish to the wall. Locals wouldn’t have touched the place with a six-foot barge-pole... unless they’d wanted to be the proud owner of a six-foot barge-pole with dry rot. The ‘For Sale’ sign had disappeared beneath an exuberant growth of virginia creeper, which, according to the surveyor, was the only thing holding the place up. The best way to sell Rose Cottage, locals agreed, would be to demolish it and auction off the bricks as individual lots.
Convinced, like P T Barnum, that there’s a mug born every minute, the seller bided his time. So it seemed like Christmas had come early when Gemma came to Whimsey, saw Rose Cottage featured in the 'slums for sale' section of the Gazette & Advertiser, and immediately fell in love with the place. Love is blind: a condition that’s not improved by wearing rose-coloured glasses.
Gemma has a trusting nature, and doesn’t like to be on the receiving end of bad news. She missed the explicit warnings in the surveyor’s report, despite them being highlighted with a fluorescent marker pen and strings of exclamation marks. The report made such depressing reading, in fact, that she threw it the bin. She decided to back her feminine intuition instead, which proved to be an expensive mistake. Gemma had a warm feeling about the house; it had a welcoming aura. All it needed, she reckoned, was a lick of paint, some wind-chimes and a few dozen house-plants. She walked into the estate agents office with the proceeds from a generous divorce settlement, forgot to haggle and paid cash.
Rose Cottage is a black hole of a house: able to suck in as much money as anyone would think of throwing at it, and still be barely habitable. When the wind whistled through the cracks in the window frames, it sounded like Larry Adler tuning up. Gemma 'cured' the leaky roof by the simple ruse of not venturing into the loft any more, and masked the more malodorous smells with incense. She coped with the grime and neglect in the only way she knew how - by using dimmer lightbulbs. By the time she was down to 4-watt bulbs, she was bumping into the furniture.
With the help of a local builder who knew which side his bread was buttered, Gemma put the kitchen where the bathroom was, converted the box-room into an en-suite bathroom, raised the roof by two feet and created an extra bedroom. She had the house sand-blasted - though, intriguingly, only on the inside. A plan to move the entire house three feet to the south ("to get the morning sun") was abandoned, but only with the greatest reluctance. After all the upheavals Rose Cottage now looks a picture; unfortunately it's a picture by Hieronymous Bosch.
Convinced, like P T Barnum, that there’s a mug born every minute, the seller bided his time. So it seemed like Christmas had come early when Gemma came to Whimsey, saw Rose Cottage featured in the 'slums for sale' section of the Gazette & Advertiser, and immediately fell in love with the place. Love is blind: a condition that’s not improved by wearing rose-coloured glasses.
Gemma has a trusting nature, and doesn’t like to be on the receiving end of bad news. She missed the explicit warnings in the surveyor’s report, despite them being highlighted with a fluorescent marker pen and strings of exclamation marks. The report made such depressing reading, in fact, that she threw it the bin. She decided to back her feminine intuition instead, which proved to be an expensive mistake. Gemma had a warm feeling about the house; it had a welcoming aura. All it needed, she reckoned, was a lick of paint, some wind-chimes and a few dozen house-plants. She walked into the estate agents office with the proceeds from a generous divorce settlement, forgot to haggle and paid cash.
Rose Cottage is a black hole of a house: able to suck in as much money as anyone would think of throwing at it, and still be barely habitable. When the wind whistled through the cracks in the window frames, it sounded like Larry Adler tuning up. Gemma 'cured' the leaky roof by the simple ruse of not venturing into the loft any more, and masked the more malodorous smells with incense. She coped with the grime and neglect in the only way she knew how - by using dimmer lightbulbs. By the time she was down to 4-watt bulbs, she was bumping into the furniture.
With the help of a local builder who knew which side his bread was buttered, Gemma put the kitchen where the bathroom was, converted the box-room into an en-suite bathroom, raised the roof by two feet and created an extra bedroom. She had the house sand-blasted - though, intriguingly, only on the inside. A plan to move the entire house three feet to the south ("to get the morning sun") was abandoned, but only with the greatest reluctance. After all the upheavals Rose Cottage now looks a picture; unfortunately it's a picture by Hieronymous Bosch.
Saturday, May 2, 2020
9 Bargain basement
Thanks to the sterling efforts of Brenda, our tireless Tourism Officer, we have a hectic schedule of events lined up for the summer months. Morris dancing, the duck race, the scarecrow festival, blood donor sessions: will the fun never end?
You could go a long way (well, another postal district, anyway) to find better entertainment than our weekly car boot sales, held every Sunday morning on Potter’s field. It wasn’t so long ago that people went to church on a Sunday morning. They looked to the man in the pulpit for guidance and reassurance. But the habit’s been broken, and it will take more than gimmicks like hymn number bingo to bring the congregations back to fill the empty pews. Nevertheless, locals find there's a big hole in their lives where blind, unquestioning faith used to be. So they go car-booting instead - to rummage through other peoples’ cast-offs and maybe pick up a bargain.
Here, in the bargain basement of budget retailing, there’s plenty of stuff to keep the browsers busy. 'Antiques of tomorrow', the stallholders call it: what used to be described, more prosaically, as 'rubbish'. Displayed artlessly on makeshift stalls is the kind of junk that most Whimsey folk would otherwise be taking down to the dump: dodgy DVDs, rusty tools, chipped coronation mugs, old biscuit tins, novely ashtrays, foot spas, toasted sandwich makers, Polaroid Swinger cameras they stopped making film for twenty years ago... and that elusive third LP by Bucks Fizz.
There's always an ancient Hoover with a sign reading 'Genuine Reason For Sale'. Yes, it's a genuine reason all right: it’s knackered. Those who have suffered the misfortune of having their car radio stolen may find a replacement on one of the stalls. They may even find the one that was stolen in the first place.
You could go a long way (well, another postal district, anyway) to find better entertainment than our weekly car boot sales, held every Sunday morning on Potter’s field. It wasn’t so long ago that people went to church on a Sunday morning. They looked to the man in the pulpit for guidance and reassurance. But the habit’s been broken, and it will take more than gimmicks like hymn number bingo to bring the congregations back to fill the empty pews. Nevertheless, locals find there's a big hole in their lives where blind, unquestioning faith used to be. So they go car-booting instead - to rummage through other peoples’ cast-offs and maybe pick up a bargain.
Here, in the bargain basement of budget retailing, there’s plenty of stuff to keep the browsers busy. 'Antiques of tomorrow', the stallholders call it: what used to be described, more prosaically, as 'rubbish'. Displayed artlessly on makeshift stalls is the kind of junk that most Whimsey folk would otherwise be taking down to the dump: dodgy DVDs, rusty tools, chipped coronation mugs, old biscuit tins, novely ashtrays, foot spas, toasted sandwich makers, Polaroid Swinger cameras they stopped making film for twenty years ago... and that elusive third LP by Bucks Fizz.
There's always an ancient Hoover with a sign reading 'Genuine Reason For Sale'. Yes, it's a genuine reason all right: it’s knackered. Those who have suffered the misfortune of having their car radio stolen may find a replacement on one of the stalls. They may even find the one that was stolen in the first place.
8 On the Whimsey beat
In the East Riding police force, a posting to Whimsey is seen as a step down the career ladder. A punishment for past misdeeds, perhaps, or a tranquil semi-retirement for traumatised coppers who can no longer hack it in the city.
No serving police officer had ever volunteered for the Whimsey beat until Sam Braithwaite threw his hat into the ring. Five years ago Sam was just another copper pounding the city streets, filling his little black notebook with incomprehensible squiggles. But when Sam tried to learn the off-duty jargon known as canteen culture, he found plenty of canteen but precious little culture. He could’t join in the banter; his face didn’t fit. Sam decided to jump before he was pushed. When the Whimsey posting came up, he applied and, in the absence of any other candidates, got the job.
Like Sam, the Police House in Whimsey is modest and unassuming. Parked out front is a compact hatchback with a Greenpeace sticker on the back window. Sam doesn’t do a lot of mileage; five years on, the car still looks brand new. It’s got a siren and a little flashing light, but Sam doesn’t like to draw attention to himself. In the front garden is a notice board warning locals about the hazards of Colorado Beetles, abd the need to check the credentials of unannounced callers.
Having chosen out-of-the-way Whimsey, Sam ensures that his shortcomings as a police officer go more or less unnoticed. He can still hardly believe he’s getting paid to wander round the village, keeping an eye on things. It’s not like work at all. Old biddies ask him the time; some of them ask him what year it is. He sees things that other, busier people miss, such as the kingfisher that flies - with a flash of electric blue - across the river. And when things are particularly quiet in Whimsey - that’s most days, really - Sam takes the opportunity to slip away into the woods. Inside his jacket is a well-thumbed field-guide to mosses and liverworts. In the leather pouch where his walkie-talkie ought to be Sam keeps a pair of compact binoculars.
He was glad to get rid of the walkie-talkie. It made him feel self-conscious, and the antenna used to jab him in the eye. No-one ever called him up anyway. Unless Whimsey is suddenly overrun by mobsters, or cash-strapped farmers decide to diversify into cannabis cultivation, there is a tacit agreement at divisional headquarters that Sam should be left to his own devices. Indeed, the only contact with his Chief Inspector is a monthly phone call - merely to check that Sam is alive and well and keeping Whimsey’s crime figures down. This is fine with Sam, and keeps paperwork to a bare minimum.
Whimsey is not one of the East Riding’s crime hot-spots, though PC Braithwaite can’t take much credit for that. Local kids don’t go out looting. Well, not on school nights anyway. Misdemeanors seldom get more serious than serving red wine with the fish course, or wearing a loud tie in a built-up area. On those blessedly rare occasions when we do have a robbery, it’s likely to end with a red-faced burglar returning a bin-bag of valuables with an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders and the offer of a conciliatory pint. We have our fair share of roughnecks, of course, but they mostly drink out of harm's way, at the far end of the bar in the Farrier’s Arms, where the people most at risk from their lager-fuelled outbursts are each other.
No serving police officer had ever volunteered for the Whimsey beat until Sam Braithwaite threw his hat into the ring. Five years ago Sam was just another copper pounding the city streets, filling his little black notebook with incomprehensible squiggles. But when Sam tried to learn the off-duty jargon known as canteen culture, he found plenty of canteen but precious little culture. He could’t join in the banter; his face didn’t fit. Sam decided to jump before he was pushed. When the Whimsey posting came up, he applied and, in the absence of any other candidates, got the job.
Like Sam, the Police House in Whimsey is modest and unassuming. Parked out front is a compact hatchback with a Greenpeace sticker on the back window. Sam doesn’t do a lot of mileage; five years on, the car still looks brand new. It’s got a siren and a little flashing light, but Sam doesn’t like to draw attention to himself. In the front garden is a notice board warning locals about the hazards of Colorado Beetles, abd the need to check the credentials of unannounced callers.
Having chosen out-of-the-way Whimsey, Sam ensures that his shortcomings as a police officer go more or less unnoticed. He can still hardly believe he’s getting paid to wander round the village, keeping an eye on things. It’s not like work at all. Old biddies ask him the time; some of them ask him what year it is. He sees things that other, busier people miss, such as the kingfisher that flies - with a flash of electric blue - across the river. And when things are particularly quiet in Whimsey - that’s most days, really - Sam takes the opportunity to slip away into the woods. Inside his jacket is a well-thumbed field-guide to mosses and liverworts. In the leather pouch where his walkie-talkie ought to be Sam keeps a pair of compact binoculars.
He was glad to get rid of the walkie-talkie. It made him feel self-conscious, and the antenna used to jab him in the eye. No-one ever called him up anyway. Unless Whimsey is suddenly overrun by mobsters, or cash-strapped farmers decide to diversify into cannabis cultivation, there is a tacit agreement at divisional headquarters that Sam should be left to his own devices. Indeed, the only contact with his Chief Inspector is a monthly phone call - merely to check that Sam is alive and well and keeping Whimsey’s crime figures down. This is fine with Sam, and keeps paperwork to a bare minimum.
Whimsey is not one of the East Riding’s crime hot-spots, though PC Braithwaite can’t take much credit for that. Local kids don’t go out looting. Well, not on school nights anyway. Misdemeanors seldom get more serious than serving red wine with the fish course, or wearing a loud tie in a built-up area. On those blessedly rare occasions when we do have a robbery, it’s likely to end with a red-faced burglar returning a bin-bag of valuables with an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders and the offer of a conciliatory pint. We have our fair share of roughnecks, of course, but they mostly drink out of harm's way, at the far end of the bar in the Farrier’s Arms, where the people most at risk from their lager-fuelled outbursts are each other.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)