Carnival
I have been in a little town called Castle Cary over the last couple of days, staying with some old friends for the town carnival.
Carnival in this form is very much a west country phenomenon: they don't do it in other parts of the country. It's not at all like the Bonfire Societies of the south east: carnival comprises a series of large floats, either with lots of flashing lights and dancing, or people locked in an unmoving tableau.
Anyway, the festivities got off to a cracking start when, at lunch, a sudden gust of wind knocked over the budgie's cage. The cage broke, the budgie flew out and, like a little yellow rocket, hurtled into the blue autumn sky and was gone.
"DO SOMETHING!!!" my friend J cried to her husband C, who replied, reasonably enough, "Well, I can't fly."
C and I legged it into the street and raced after the budgie, scattering a troupe of Morris dancers in our wake. Then I got something in my eye and had to go into the pub (no, honestly) to sort it out. No budgie. We got back to find that J's grand-daughter (aged 6 and the nominal owner of the budgie) had returned. There were tears. But not for long, as the 6 year old in question has lost a string of small animals (it is the countryside, after all) and has grown used to the idea. She and her mother have put posters up everywhere, but it was very cold last night and I suspect that budgie has gone to the great birdcage in the sky.
Then T appeared and we watched the carnival go by. Let's just say that carnival probably isn't really my thing. I had to buy some Pinot Grigio to cope with it, but we had some fun with the 6 year old and her friend since everyone agreed that if your grandma is acting as marshal below the window of your home, the only reasonable thing to do is to lower a hotdog and a glass of wine in a bucket on a string down to her rather than being boring and walking down the stairs.
The night saw Great Escape No 2 since J's Jack Russell thought it would be really, really cool to go and say hello to the 6 year old's very charming rabbit in its hutch at 3 am. No one was awake to let the little dog out, so she simply headbutted the catflap and broke it off its hinges. The rabbit is still with us, so I'm thankful for small blessings, frankly.
Carnival in this form is very much a west country phenomenon: they don't do it in other parts of the country. It's not at all like the Bonfire Societies of the south east: carnival comprises a series of large floats, either with lots of flashing lights and dancing, or people locked in an unmoving tableau.
Anyway, the festivities got off to a cracking start when, at lunch, a sudden gust of wind knocked over the budgie's cage. The cage broke, the budgie flew out and, like a little yellow rocket, hurtled into the blue autumn sky and was gone.
"DO SOMETHING!!!" my friend J cried to her husband C, who replied, reasonably enough, "Well, I can't fly."
C and I legged it into the street and raced after the budgie, scattering a troupe of Morris dancers in our wake. Then I got something in my eye and had to go into the pub (no, honestly) to sort it out. No budgie. We got back to find that J's grand-daughter (aged 6 and the nominal owner of the budgie) had returned. There were tears. But not for long, as the 6 year old in question has lost a string of small animals (it is the countryside, after all) and has grown used to the idea. She and her mother have put posters up everywhere, but it was very cold last night and I suspect that budgie has gone to the great birdcage in the sky.
Then T appeared and we watched the carnival go by. Let's just say that carnival probably isn't really my thing. I had to buy some Pinot Grigio to cope with it, but we had some fun with the 6 year old and her friend since everyone agreed that if your grandma is acting as marshal below the window of your home, the only reasonable thing to do is to lower a hotdog and a glass of wine in a bucket on a string down to her rather than being boring and walking down the stairs.
The night saw Great Escape No 2 since J's Jack Russell thought it would be really, really cool to go and say hello to the 6 year old's very charming rabbit in its hutch at 3 am. No one was awake to let the little dog out, so she simply headbutted the catflap and broke it off its hinges. The rabbit is still with us, so I'm thankful for small blessings, frankly.