I’m sat here typing this in the back garden. I can’t see what I’m typing for the glare of the sun. However, I refuse to miss a second of warmth as we so rarely get it. So I suffer the pain of severe back ache from contorting into whatever position I can to keep my body in the sunshine and the laptop in the shade. As I type James (my son) shouts from the upstairs window.
‘You alright?’ he asks.
‘Yes chicken’ I answer.
‘cool’ (no request for money which puts me on my guard).
So I continue ‘You alright?’.
‘Yes playing online with Matthew, (relieved as I know this to be a class mate and not a weirdo you hear about on the news) playing xxxx (some game I’ve never heard of) and Minecraft’ (relieved as understand this to be a harmless building thing that Stampy Long Nose raves about).
‘Oh good’ I comment.
‘love you mum, bye’ (still no request for money).
Ahhhhhh, I will of course update you in a later blog if ‘love you mum’ had any agenda.
So now to typing about the business, which was my initial intention. Here’s an insight into the wacky world of events or craft fairs, that nearly always start with a pitch fight. A pitch fight is basically subtly encroaching onto your neighbours pitch area before they arrive and then engaging in argument. Arguments of this type have ended in a man measuring my gazebo (I kid you not) and yes I won, it was 2.6m on a 3m pitch so my ‘illegally placed’ display stand was indeed in my area!
So today the Zafira was packed to over flowing, I was a late arrival (as ever) and the usual attempt at politeness to work out if the neighbours stock was actually left on my pitch area in error (or a subtle encroachment)…I should really get to these things sooner, it’s like the fight for sunbeds on a cheap package holiday! And then starts the one woman effort to throw up a gazebo, 2 tables, 3 stands and layout priced stock nicely within 90 minutes whilst an organiser scowls unhelpfully telling me I need to move my car. On the note of organisers, why do they have this power trip of stopping you to force you to put on hazard lights whilst driving? Surely throwing themselves in front of a moving car shouting ‘STOP’ is more of a health and safety risk than me forgetting my hazard lights? So finally all set up, and as unhappy as ever (I always think mine looks like a jumble sale,) I’m ready to go.
At that point, I’ll end it as Frank (other half) is now sat next to me, depressing me on news that the lawnmower is ‘f*^%$%’ (he has a way with words). It’s not quite an East Ender dum dum dum ending, but I’ll thrill you all with the insights of successful trading (hmmm on occasion successful trading) next time