bunting bunting bunting

Hoist the bunting!
Reserve a cake!
Scone and jam?
oooh, here's the brass band!
oooh, here's the vicar come to open the fete!
hurrah hurrah hurrah!
So today is The Village Fete. Not the village of Harringay, no, I'm talking genuine ye-olde-Hampshire-village fete. I'm down at my parents house enjoying the chaos as 50 or so of the well bred helpful village folk heave tressle tables around Mum's garden which Dad has spent hours and hours fine-tuning over the last few weeks (the nettles have been tamed, but SHOCKER, a wasps nest has just been discovered by the coconut shy and stings have been stung... do I sniff a village sized law suit?). Upon said tressle tables are piled cakes jams cheap jewellary old toys bottles of dusty Blue Nun for the tombola and a few old copies of Gilly Cooper and a couple of out of date Lonely Planet Istanbul. Anything goes on sale at a village fete. Some things are recycled and have made appearances for the last couple of decades. There is a particular broach I recognise for the 3rd year running. Poor broach. Does it get laughed at by the other more glossy numbers? It sits there like a teenage wall flower at its first disco, never asked to dance, not even glanced at, just left - thoughtlessly, callously - alone, untouched... It sits on its little cushion sniffing quietly proudly to itself, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. I like my marbled pink plastic montage. I do and my self esteem is OK. It really is.
But enough about the self-pitying recycled mad talking broach.
What Mol is really up for is a bit of traditional Punch & Judy. Where Judy really does get the shit beaten out of her for about 1/2 hour none-stop, whilst the baby gets chucked over the side of the mini-theatre (a la Michael Jackson & Blanket - I find it hard to write Blanket in the context of being a name without heaving, how could anyone call their child that? That in itself is tantamount to some sort of child-abuse, surely?) and a crocodile that eats a lot of sausages and chases Punch. It's so violent but apparently it's also OK this sort of domestic violence is acceptable because, um, oh, I've forgotten the reason why. Oh, maybe because it's really old and traditional and it's like an institution so it's fine to watch a man whack his wife with a truncheon and the kids, honestly, won't realise that it's mirroring a grizzly reality of normality for many women and families.
I wonder why Mol is so up for it? For someone who is so not interested in banging about with a sword or play-fighting or guns or even thumb-war, it surprises me that she'd be into this cracking-yarn of puppetry-battle. I think the worst violence she's seen in her family was when I was very hormonal at the end of my pregnancy with Liz and I chucked a bowl of cheerios over Husband's head. With milk in it. Its funny now (sort of) but at the time it caused a big uproar and a lot of toe-curling-humiliation. God knows what got me in such a rage. Probably something entirely trivial and unimportant. But that is the joy of hormones and pregnancy.
So. Punch & Judy. Cakes. Splat the Rat. Coconuts. Brass band & bunting. Maybe some sack-races, and a pony-ride.
As the moment of the grand opening comes closer all the village folk are turning up in their plastic macs and their eyes trained on the sky, "oh lord, look at that black cloud", "will the heavens open?" "god give us mercy on this day of fund raising" are just a few of the phrases I can hear being chewed over as the scones are being eyed up by the pensioners at the front of the tea-queue.
Ah. I just love a good fete me I do.
And the best bit is friendly-jossling at the junk-stall where the optimists think they'll find that gem from the attic that is worth a tidy fortune and will transform their close-circuit village life and take them to ST Tropez and sparkling wine ad-infinitum.
For me, I just like to make sure I win the raffle. Even if I have to buy all the damned tickets.
Now. Where's that bloody crocodile got to?