The weather has suddenly "improved" [1] and as I'm two weeks past my second anti-Covid inoculation [2] I set out on Thursday, fortified with my new superpowers, for an afternoon walk on Southampton Common, there to mix freely and fearlessly with the Common people. These are usually mainly dog-emptiers [3] and joggers but, with the University back in action and the sun out, there were also a lot of young folk chasing balls and generally lazing about. It's amazing how much knowledge you can apparently absorb passively from sunshine [4]. Perhaps the pursuit of wisdom is why so many of us seem so desperate to assert our human right to a couple of weeks on a sunny beach somewhere overseas. It couldn't be that we're just a bunch of selfish, self-indulgent, entitled, first-world idiots with no sense of proportion or propriety, could it?
After walking for a bit I realised I was becoming aware of a strangely familiar sensation. No, not stepping in dog shit, or even envy for the youth of the youthful (although I am increasingly perplexed by the abundance of gym-honed bodies – nobody went to the gym in my day – together with what we used to be allowed to call "very fat people", also pretty much unheard of back then; autre temps...). No, it was that thing you first feel reverberating in your chest: that unmistakable feeling that someone, somewhere is playing bass-heavy music, or possibly dropping rocks from a great height into an enormous metal skip. Boom! Boom! Followed by muffled scraps of amplified voice – "One two! One two!" – and smears of indeterminate instrumental sounds blowing on the breeze. It could only mean one thing: an open air event, possibly a music festival. My pace quickened, as if I already had a ticket for whatever it was in my back pocket, and I made my way through various familiar wooded shortcuts to the large open space where such events are always staged on the Common.
It turned out not to be a music festival, though, but a bank-holiday weekend funfair. Disappointing, but nonetheless a photo opportunity. Also, on reflection, clearly a potential Covid super-spreader event: what on earth were they thinking? Mind you, with entry set at twenty pounds for twelve tokens ("most rides & attractions one token") I can't see this being exactly packed out, even on a sunny Sunday afternoon. These things always used to be free, but I realise I've already complained about that before; in fact, now I come to re-read it, it seems I've already written in that 2018 post on "festivals" exactly what I intended to write today, so I won't bother to repeat myself: just follow the link if you're interested.
I must admit it might be fun to watch socially-distanced dodgems, or a Covid-secure coconut shy, but not for twenty quid. In fact, what I enjoy most about fairgrounds (and TBH I've never really enjoyed fairs since the time my date threw up all over my lap in a particularly bumpy ride) is the view from behind the garish facades, where the ride owners have their trailers and trucks, and the real life of the fairground folk goes on, whether working, taking a break, or hanging out the washing to dry.
1. One of my pet peeves is the way weather forecasters on the media salt value terms into their meteo-gabble – a "far nicer day spreading from the west", "some lovely sunshine", etc. Hey, I'll be the judge of whether this is going to be a nice day or not, thanks very much!
2. Another thing: the way "jab" has established itself as the accepted term for an injection. I suppose it is easier to spell and to say, but it's as if "quack" had become the standard way of referring to a doctor, or "quid" had replaced "pound" on the BBC news.
4. In my student days knowledge was absorbed passively by falling asleep on an open book at 3 a.m., or by bending over a photocopier. I know: four footnotes in one paragraph! Is this a record?
No comments:
Post a Comment