This afternoon I am helping out at the Worstead Festival in the Children's Craft Tent. As I see it there are two major flaws in this arrangement. First of all I have no discernible creative talent whatsoever and second, I don't much like children. If I mess up enough today they hopefully won't ask me again next year, or that's the plan.
It is incredible the level of emotion which a seemingly simple and supposedly enjoyable event can generate. Life-long friendships, akin to those formed whilst in the trenches, can be made or broken over the best technique to win the tug-of-war. I have witnessed grow men weep as they lose their 'how hard can you hit the hammer' title to a rival. Potential prize marrows are closely guarded by their owners in case of sabotage. Poor old Jack Carter was a broken man after his ended up as ratatouille before the judging was done. He was last seen trashing his allotment before retreating to his shed with a bottle of grow-more muttering incoherently.
However, by far the ugliest incident to date was back in 2009 when paramedics were called to the Women's Institute tent where Linda Pilkington-Smythe had been found choking on her own Victoria Sponge, the whole sponge. Thank goodness it was so light and fluffy or the outcome could have been more along 'Midsomer Murders' lines.
...and so off we all go for an afternoon of fun and frolics, small children with temporary (we hope) tattoos, the smell of hot-dogs and my son returning home full of E numbers and with £10 worth of junk. All I can say is thank the Lord there isn't any Morris Dancing.
P.S - lots of my lovely friends are involved in this festival and a lot of hard work goes into it. It is a fantastic event and you need to dismiss all of the above as poetic licence!
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