from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY
Tuesday, March 5th
I had to go to Stowmarket Specsavers today for my regular eye test, and while there I saw two very fat ladies very substantial women standing outside a Vape shop chattering and having a fag. I am not sure if they were advertising something, but if they were it was not working, and the image left inside my head will not go away, and writing about it is not helping. It is not helping at all. And I have to have new reading glasses.
In The Wheatsheaf this evening Bernie Shepherdson said that because the House of Lords is delaying and it looks like they plan to go on delaying the government’s plans to send their unwanted foreign visitors to Africa then it is more and more likely that they will try and put some of them in our village hall, especially as it is now all new and shiny inside after the repairs and refurbishment following the fire. He said GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) – the Parish Council’s little group whose aim is to stop that happening – should be putting itself on what he called “a war footing”, and get itself properly organised. I think we have been here before, and also it sounds like he has been talking to Major “Teddy” Thomas, because he started going on about uniforms. I told him Miss Tindle has made us all new armbands, but that did not seem to be quite enough for him. It feels like enough for me, and I said as much.
Friday, March 8th
Bumped into Nancy Crowe today, who is very vocal among the village youth and in their criticism of GASSE. Instead of just saying Hello and passing by, we stopped for a moment, and she said she wanted to talk to me about what she called “like, the whole poor boat people, like, thing”. If there had been a coffee shop in the village I would have said Let’s go and have a coffee, but there isn’t, so instead I said she was more than welcome to pop in and have a cup of tea at the house if she wanted, and I gave her my phone number. I hope I have not done anything inappropriate. Perhaps I should suggest she bring a chaperone. Then again, she might not come.
Saturday, March 9th
There was discussion in The Wheatsheaf at lunchtime about sending unwanted foreigners to Africa, and whether or not they would be safe there. One wag (I don’t know his name; I think he was just passing through) said it would probably be safer than sending them to live on a council estate in Ipswich. I though that was quite a funny line, which is why I’ve written it down, so I don’t forget it. I might use it myself sometime.
Sunday, March 10th
A while ago the County Council, as I diaried (is that a word?) at the time, resurfaced the road that goes through the village, and as a result we became a favoured race-track for joy-riders and boy racers, probably youngsters from the youth wing of the Stowmarket branch of MENSA. Anyhoo, last night someone pranged a BMW (nice car!) outside the village shop and demolished the post-box, and left the car somewhat the worse for wear sort of astride it. Lunchtime it was still there, but the Police have always had trouble finding their way here, judging by how rarely we see any of them. Of course the upshot is that now villagers will not be able to post letters until the post-box is restored. Mind you, with stamps the price they are I think most people cannot afford to send letters, even if they can remember how to write them.
Tuesday, March 12th
John Garnham, the Parish Clerk, has told me (and, I assume, others) that the deadline for submitting an application to stand as a parish councillor is approaching. I looked online and it is not tomorrow, and there is still a couple of weeks to go. Frankly, the elections for the Parish Council are a bit of a non-event here: if you are already on it, all you have to do is tell people you want to stay on it and you will be alright. In the past, even the occasional punch-up with fellow villagers has not stopped someone being re-elected (I name no names!), but it will not hurt to photocopy some leaflets and stick them through some letterboxes, but that is about all that is needed, so I shall get on the laptop and knock something up this week. I will continue on the Council (should the electorate grant me that honour, of course) but I am not interested in being the Parish Clerk. It is too much like a proper job, with too much responsibility. It is one thing to attend a few meetings and put one’s two penn’orth in, and I enjoy being the ARSE (Advanced Round-the-clock Security Executive) for GASSE, but I am happy to leave it at that. But with John Garnham stepping down, I wonder who will replace him? Bernie Shepherdson is probably the bookie’s favourite, or would be if he was a horse. He and his wife Bernadette have let us use their summer house for meetings, and he can probably use her cakes to win over a lot of people. She is quite the cook, especially in the cake and pastry line. The alternatives are not very attractive, to be honest: probably the Major will stand, but he does not have much in the way of kerb appeal, while Michael Whittingham is enough of a nuisance and popular among certain sections of the community to have a shot at it. I do not know if anyone else is interested enough. Most of the others on the Council are like me: they like to be involved, and it gets them out of the house, but they would prefer someone else to do the heavy lifting.
I was chatting about all this with Kristina behind the bar at The Wheatsheaf, and she said she thought I would make a very good Parish Clerk, and added that she reckoned that was not the only thing I would be good at. Then she said she really likes my beard, which I am maintaining at a rugged-looking stubble kind of length. I am not sure if she was flirting with me. I am not very good at figuring that kind of thing out. Plus, I am a married man, at least technically.
James Henderson
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