I spent today with Annabelle and my parents at a craft fair.
Yes, I knew it would be ‘persisting’ down with rain all day but Mum played the ‘it’s my birthday tomorrow’ card. Wily old bird that she is, she also promised me horses doing tricks and followed that up with mention of a beer tent.
The beer tent sold coffee and the horses weren’t out of control at all, they were doing dressage.
I was expecting the full-on-riding-two-horses-at-once-circus-experience which could potentially have been a gripping event given the fact that Northamptonshire was experiencing it’s version of monsoon season, but it was not to be.
It was all very British and well organised, which is all well and good if you are someone that enjoys things ‘going as planned’. Personally, I found that trailing around after my parents in the rain, stone cold sober, and at an event where everything was going off without a hitch was just making me tense.
Tension like that sometimes makes me start biting people and so, it was with huge relief, that I happened upon the high point of the day.
I went into the craft marquee.
Hooray! The nutters!
It was like the local loony bin was having a show and tell day. Every time I walked past one of their displays of ‘seriously-I-made-this-my-very-own-self’ junk, I was fixed with a look of such crazy eyed desperation that I began to wonder if I was going to make it out of there in one piece.
I quickly adopted a smiley ‘gosh that’s fabulous, if only I had eighty quid on me, I’d absolutely, definitely be going home with one of your hideous, purple, hairy handbags’ grimmace, which allowed me to slide by without their taking too much notice of me.
One woman was less fortunate. The man who had a rather unique display of cork pens, cork animal figures and cork cutlery on his wallpapering-table became incensed when she paused (don’t do it love, keep moving) picked up a pen, looked at it (I was wincing, I can tell you) and then, horror of horrors, tried to put it down again.
Last I saw of her, she was hurdling chairs and tables with the cork-man in hot pursuit. He was waving a cork-pen at her retreating silhouette and shouting ‘Okay, I’ll let you have it for fifteen’.
Annabelle didn’t help. She kept trying to catch my attention by shouting my name, frantically waving and gesturing at me to come and marvel at what some beaming eccentric had managed to achieve, no doubt in her cognitive therapy workshop, with some red felt and a glue-gun.
I finally relented and bought a bottle of cordial from a man with an inordinately big head. It’s got to be said, I thought it was some kind of weird home-made vodka so I’m not entirely happy with my purchase but £7.50 for lemon juice, who can complain at value like that?
If I mix it with enough vodka (and perhaps some LSD thrown in for good measure) maybe I can take up craft-stalling too.