Wednesday, April 17th
On the wireless this morning I heard someone say the House of Commons and the House of Lords were having a game of ping-pong to decide what will happen about the government’s plans to send its unwanted foreign visitors to Africa. I think they should probably take it more seriously than that. I wonder if Richi Sunak is any good at ping-pong. He does not look the athletic type. I was never any good at any kind of tennis, the table kind or the Wimbledon one. I could only ever hit the ball now and then, and when I did hit it, it was more by luck than judgement.
But my tennis skills are irrelevant, unless they are an accidental metaphor for the government’s competence in anything, but that would be unbelievably clever of me, especially if I did it without knowing. What concerns me and my co-members of GASSE – “Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”, the Parish Council’s group set up to prevent the hall being turned into the equivalent of a hotel for uninvited foreigners – is that whoever comes out on top in the ping-pong it is still likely that there will be lots of unfortunate people needing a bed for the night, and since its refurbishment our village hall is pretty welcoming in a kind of impersonal village hall empty space kind of way, so it is important that GASSE stays alert. But all the gossip going around the village and occupying the regulars in The Wheatsheaf at the moment is about the upcoming elections to the Parish Council. There are 14 candidates, and only 7 (seven) seats to fill. Four people (including Yours Truly) are seeking re-election, three people (John Garnham, the current Parish Clerk, and two others, both of whom never say anything and in my experience have also never been known to do anything) are standing down, and there is a worrying little contingent of the youth, members of CASHEW (“Come and Sleep Here – Everyone’s Welcome”) – the young people’s group who oppose GASSE – and I think a couple of others who are sympathetic with their cause . . . It is very possible that the entire new Council could turn out to be anti-GASSE, in which case it would almost certainly cease to be!
I have not been out and about with my campaign leaflets yet. I think it is too soon. People have very short memories, like goldfish. And sometimes goldfish are smarter.
Thursday, April 18th
John Garnham telephoned to tell me that he is still having an argument with The Ipswich Players about our cancelling their “Waiting for Godot” a while back because the hall was still undergoing repairs and refurbishment, and he says that now they are saying they will drop their claim for compensation if we book them to come and put it on in May. He wants to know what I think, because he will not be on the Council then and it is more or less within my remit as the Community Liaison and Publicity Officer (CLAPO). I told him that I thought we should tell them we cannot make a decision until the new Council is in place. I did not tell him that if I am re-elected I do not intend to be the CLAPO any more – I am keeping that under my hat for now. Publicity and what-have-you is not really my cup of tea, to be honest. It should probably be done by someone who is more outgoing and who gives a damn.
Friday, April 19th
A massive hoo-hah this afternoon when the Scrabble people turned up in the hall for their weekly get-together to find the place under water. Some errant plumbing in the kitchen, apparently, and there was water everywhere, even as far as flooding the floor in the main hall, and it was all hands on deck to mop up the mess. I gather Bob Merchant was called in on account of his chaps having fitted the kitchen. Luckily I was in Stowmarket doing some errands, and after my wife called to tell me what was going on I made sure I stayed there. She thought she was going to have to cancel her Friday evening yoga class (“Oh Yeah! Yoga!”) but it was only water, and the floor in the main hall was alright by the evening, and the yoga ladies only really need the floor, but the kitchen cannot be used until next week, or whenever Merchant’s chaps have done what needs to be done in the plumbing department. You would have thought it would be in his electoral ambition interests to get things back and working properly straight away, but I suppose he did not want to pay his blokes overtime or weekend rates. That is Bob Merchant in a nutshell.
Sunday, April 21st
I am pretty sure that getting drunk in the local pub on a Saturday night is not a good look for a prospective Parish Councillor, but Michael Whittingham makes something of a habit of it, and sometimes crosses the line that divides fun and not fun. Last night he was apparently very loud with his opinions of the candidates for the Parish Council elections, and I am afraid that he said some very hurtful things about some very decent people including, I am sorry to say, my wife and I, which was reported to her this morning by Miss Chloe Young. I shall not go into details, but my wife says I should “have a word with him”. But Michael Whittingham has a tendency to settle disagreements with threats of violence, and sometimes more, and so I said I would not dignify his remarks by acknowledging them. I know it is the sort of thing people say in films when they are a bit scared, but I was not going to risk personal injury. My wife was not very satisfied, but I cannot help that. Also I thought she and Whittingham were on decent terms. I did, after all, see them chattering and laughing together outside the village shop a few weeks ago. Perhaps there is something I do not know, but ignorance is bliss. Probably.
Tuesday, April 23rd
Woke up this morning to the radio news that the government eventually won their ping pong match with the House of Lords, but I do not know what the score was. Then a lady on the radio was asking a government person questions about how they were going to send the unwanteds to Africa and they got into a bit of an argument and at one point were almost shouting at one another and talking at the same time, so I gave up on that and went to get breakfast, only to find that my wife had had the last of the bite-size Wheatie Shreds and we were also out of bread so I could not even have toast. I was going to have a moan at her but then thought better of it. I know a lost cause when I see one.
James Henderson
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