A village affair

This is the sight that greeted me on my walk with the dogs today just across the road. Lovely isn't it?

This is the stall outside the Grigg hovel this morning just before the crowds arrived, along with Monty Chocs-Away in his open-topped classic car, Celebrity Farmer in his Land Rover with two barking dogs in the back and Posh Totty on her way to Pony Club with Charlotte Whinge-Bucket (pronounced Bouquet) in the Disco*.

Pelly and I were side by side and found ourselves in matching baggy jeans (built for comfort, not speed), purple tops and sparkly flip flops. Pelly did rather better at selling than me. As an example, when asked how much the books were I said '20p, but you can have two for 50p'. Maths was never my strong point. Grade 3 CSE three times, and that was with private coaching from the retired headmaster of the boys' grammar school.

I am happy to report the carboy (in the picture above) went and so did the wardrobe. For a song, truth be told, but it was good to get rid of them.

Pelly sold her bike to Tuppence, who live about 10 yards from each other. Tuppence clocked it when she was eating her Sunday toast and Mr Grigg, like a cycling sandwich board, suddenly rode down the lane on it.

Our neighbour, sitting on a bunk bed for three with the rest of the family enjoying the sun, took a phone bid from Night Nurse who saw something she fancied on Gandalf's stall across the road.

The road has now reverted from Junk Street back to Genteel Lane. However, there is a cast iron bath, complete with claw feet, we are hoping will be picked up by passing pikeys. They are welcome to it, and the hernia they will get loading it into their white van.

This afternoon it was up on the community playing field for their annual fete, which was masterminded by Packman Bellows. He really didn't need the megaphone.

The snail racing, stewarded by Mrs Regal Bird and Manual was nailbiting stuff. Every which way but lose.**

I am indebted to Mr Sheepwash for gamely agreeing to take part in the dog show with one of our spaniels as I attempted to control the widdling puppy from the sidelines. Sadly, there was no class for the dog that looks most like a pig. But I would have been flummoxed when the judge, the local vet, asked what trick the dog could do. In a flash, Mr Sheepwash retorted: 'Well, he can sing the national anthem but he's lost his voice.'

Woof, woof.

That's about it
Love Maddie X
* Land Rover Discovery
** (deliberate sic)