Growing wild

You can buy these, two bunches for a pound in Kidderminster today, but I wouldn't swap a wild one, growing free by the riverside, for all the bunches on the market. Crocuses in the top field, primroses in the woods, wild garlic by the pond, bluebells and snowdrops in a long-deserted graveyard - what makes them so very special, and worth more than all the cultivated gardens in the world, and all the flower shops in all the high streets? We know the answer really - spontaneous, free, unexpected, and wild.

Coppers, eh?

This week’s little story is about the boys in blue, and I’m wondering why they can be so unpleasant. It didn’t happen to me – I guess they don’t think it worth their while trying to catch me out, old grey chap, and I’ve got lights on the front and back of my bike, and an audible signal, by way of a bell, thank you very much. It happened to number one daughter this week, who survived the ordeal.
On Tuesday Sam had her wing mirror stolen – returned to the car after work, and it was gone. She rang me, and I thought she was safe to drive home. The next day a police car pulled her over, for not having an off-side wing mirror. Having pointed this out to her, and agreed that he wouldn’t be nicking her, he wrote out an order that she must replace it within fourteen days, and get a certificate from an MOT garage to confirm that she had: all quite acceptable. Then he asked her is she smoked, and if she had any illegal substances in the car, which of course she didn’t. Failing this he did a full inspection of the outside, found no bald tyres, which she doesn’t have because she had a full set just before the MOT, and then said ‘you know your tax has run out’. Poor Sam, her heart skipped a beat or two, as she wondered how that had happened, then pointed out that it said 31/03/10, and that we are still in March, whatever calendar the rozzers are working to. No arrestable offence, and a disappointed copper.
What I don’t understand is the attitude of the man. Sam is in her mid twenties, mature student and works in a lady’s outfitters, and dresses the part. Does she look as though she drives around with a stash? The thing that actually mortified her, and she won’t forget, is that when he took her details, he asked ‘is it still miss?’ Cheeky bugger.
And what I shall never understand, and this happened all through High School, is that my daughters wouldn’t dream of doing wrong, would be terrified of getting caught, and are basically on the side of community and society. Why do the enforcers of order – teachers, coppers, etc., go out of their way to alienate those people who would otherwise be on their side, and who then become anti-authoritarian?

The only real bit in the book

If you know this part of the story, you will recognise it - otherwise, I'm just being a bit self-indulgent.

A nephew of Françoise had been killed at Berry-au-Bac who was also a nephew of those millionaire cousins of Françoise, former café proprietors long since retired with a fortune. This young man of twenty-five, himself the proprietor of a little café, without other means, was called up and left his young wife to keep the little bar alone, hoping to return in a few months. He was killed and the following happened. These millionaire cousins of Françoise upon whom this young woman, widow of their nephew, had no claim whatever, left their home in the country to which they had retired ten years previously and again took over the café but without taking a penny. Every morning at six o’clock the millionaire wife, a true gentlewoman, dressed herself as did her young lady daughter to assist their niece and cousin by marriage, and for three years they washed glasses and served meals from early morning till half-past-nine at night without a day of rest. In this book in which there is not a single event which is not fictitious, in which there is not a single personage “a clef“, where I have invented everything to suit the requirements of my presentation, I must, in homage to my country, mention as personages who did exist in real life, these millionaire relations of Françoise who left their retirement to help their bereaved niece. And, persuaded that their modesty will not be offended for the excellent reason that they will never read this book, it is with childlike pleasure and deeply moved, that, unable to give the names of so many others who acted similarly and, thanks to whom France has survived, I here transcribe their name, a very French one, Larivière.

One life - live it!

Here is today’s pause for thought. Out walking this morning we passed below the summit of Stagborough Hill, a glorious green field facing south and quite a sun-trap on a chilly day. The footpath actually runs through a field used for off-road driving in four-wheeled drive cars, which trundled around the field whilst we enjoyed lunch. In the windows the vehicles displayed mottos along the lines of ‘One life – life it!’ Is it me, or is there something extremely tame about driving around a field in a motor? Me and my significant other, having walked for a couple of hours in bright sunshine through hills and valleys, watched bewildered as hefty drivers steered even heftier vehicles around a field. For people who most probably drive a car all week, to want to so at the weekend seems distinctly odd; for the same people to claim some sort of ‘living adventurously’ by driving around a field on a Sunday morning is quite ludicrous. Given that in the neighbouring woods all sorts of people are riding cycles on a variety of tracks suggests a wonderful contrast. And of course there were the walkers as, like us, enjoying the wonderful feeling of the sun in your face and the chill in your bones. So if you want a bit of adventure, try linking it with a bit of exercise – get off your bum and get out there in the elements; good for you, good for the environment, and I reckon, more fun. When I was younger, it used to make me feel quite …