How could one fail to be charmed?
In a world that seems sometimes brittle and often quite horrible. Where one has no choice but to put up with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and where the entertainments on offer and that which is supposed to cheer us appears contrived, it's right to cherish those moments that offer a genuine feeling of well-being.*
Such a moment happened the other day. On a trip to the Fens, where carrots are crunched, turnips roam wild and wicker men scare the bejezzus out of tourists.
Turning down a road in Ely, a bloke in what can only be described as an anorak stood before me, palm raised and motioning 'stop'.
In London this can mean only one thing, lock the doors and floor the acceleration peddle.
In the Fens, things are different. On went the brakes, on went the hazards.
And across the road, ushered by the man in the anorak, trooped a dozen ducks, making their way from the river to the cathedral grounds, herded by their duck lollipop man.
This is the world I feel I belong to. Where people stop for ducks and where ducks are ushered across the street safely.
Naturally, my second thought was to jump out, push one in a sack and fatten him up for Christmas, but there's nowt wrong with that either really.
* This feeling of well-being can be artificially created with two pints of bitter or a Frank Capra movie, but it's not the same.
Such a moment happened the other day. On a trip to the Fens, where carrots are crunched, turnips roam wild and wicker men scare the bejezzus out of tourists.
Turning down a road in Ely, a bloke in what can only be described as an anorak stood before me, palm raised and motioning 'stop'.
In London this can mean only one thing, lock the doors and floor the acceleration peddle.
In the Fens, things are different. On went the brakes, on went the hazards.
And across the road, ushered by the man in the anorak, trooped a dozen ducks, making their way from the river to the cathedral grounds, herded by their duck lollipop man.
This is the world I feel I belong to. Where people stop for ducks and where ducks are ushered across the street safely.
Naturally, my second thought was to jump out, push one in a sack and fatten him up for Christmas, but there's nowt wrong with that either really.
* This feeling of well-being can be artificially created with two pints of bitter or a Frank Capra movie, but it's not the same.
3 Comments:
Gosh I thought you said British men didn't get mushy, but daydreaming about living in a world with a duck crossing every quarter of a mile (or should i say, kilometer)sure seems a little bit mawkish.
I guess I will let it slide since my entry was a result of the remorse I felt after being extremely angry and threatening to egg the guy's house and car, and then crash the party by insulting his wife and stuffing all of the catered food into my deep pockets and oversized purse. I SO wish I had done that.
I have been known to mawk, on occasion. By the way, it's miles. Kilometres are used by our continental chums or, as I like to call them, those unwashed gibberish spouting hairy garlic stinking foreigners.
Guess we have something in common.
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