culture schlock

As I pass over 'the millennium bridge'  (oh how convenient.  The millennium was good for bridges if nought else)  and so over the river of Ouse,  I marvel.  Actually I am usually freezing my proverbial nackers as it is colder than a witches whatnot these days so I briskly walk over,  imagining jogging along the paths  (once this Camille-like consumption FINALLY lifts from my chest and throat.  Oh the ailments of a glamorous tragedienne aint that glam ladies and boys, let me tell ya that),  envisage sauntering along in the spring and summertime when the living might well be easy,  sitting on the verges,  if it is possible to avoid all the birdie pah-pooh these things I think as I march across the bridge millennium.

And now down a lane that doesn't deserve any description.

But.  But then.  Onto the army HQ, or at least down the side of it.  Normally I would walk along,  looking at the grey and green and think little.  Except.  Except the first time I did I was not prepared to pass by an arm-ed person.  A person wielding a machine gun.  This being old England-town I be not used to arm-ed peoples of any type, not even soldier types.  I do believe it may have been the first time in my lifetime that I encountered  (well, knowingly)  an arm-ed person.  And it were a lady arm-ed person.  Not that it surprised me.  I am well aware that there are ladies in the armies and ladies in the navies and ladies in the airforcies.  I note that it were a lady for the descriptive detail of the piece only.  Because I was taken aback or perhaps because I am polite or perhaps because I thought it less likely I would be shot if I did so, as I passed I smiled and said 'good morning'.  I was not shot, so it worked.

Now (nearly) every time I pass by that point there is an arm-ed person and every time I say 'good morning' or 'hello' as appropriate.  I always get a hello back.  Never am I shot.

Today I wandered past with my buddy-lady and we had been discussing the arm-ed person passing situation and to my slight disappointment as we approached the usual place saw a soldier NOT-arm-ed. 'right', I said, 'I'll grab the legs, you go for the head'.  I was, of course, joking.  I want to point that out right here and now so as not to incur the suspicion of the British armed forces.  However I amused myself, which is usually good enough for me.  Maybe I amused my companion;  I was too busy chortling to myself to notice.  I then noticed a second soldiered person and said, 'ah, there's another one.  Ok I'll grab him and you get the other one'. 'Hehehe', I says to myself.  Then the second one turned to reveal a machine gun slung over his back.  'Maybe not, then', suggests I.  We passed a bit of fence and there was a funny noise.  'That's our conversation being recorded,' I lied.  'We'll be arrested in the middle of class.  We'll say,  "but Ladies, don't you see?  It was two MEN. Two MEN IN UNIFORM.  You know what it's like!  You would have done the same!  How can you resist two men in uniform especially when one of them has a great big GUN?!"'

Oh but I have to point out here that I do not, in fact, have a ‘thing’ for men in uniform.  I do not, in fact, understand this ‘thing’ that women are supposed to automatically fancy firemen and soldiers and such.  I have an opposite reaction to be honest.  They always look like someone’s old, smelly uncle or some such.  Or in the case of the armed forces, like someone’s twelve year old brother.

So on we went, past the final bit of the army place and across the field, the last 'leg' of the walk to 'school'.

There are cattle in the field.  Big brown cattle. I am informed some of them have horns, ie are boy cattle but I have yet to view these big boys.  Only the girls have I seen and they weren't apparent today.  There are, of course, cattle grids.  I choose to go through the gate thing instead: 'I don't trust the grid, I fear my small hooves might slip through',  I informed my fellow-lady-traveller.  Across the field we went, it was mighty MIGHTY cold I tells ya.  My right ear was being howled on by the windy.  It now hurts a little bit.  I fear I have an ear-pneumonia situation or such.  An ear-exposure dilemma.

Then we were at 'school'.

When I returned there was no one at the soldier's post.  I was disappointed.  I heard the funny noise again though.  It would have recorded me singing selections from the score of 'Funny Girl'.  Singing 'don't rain on my parade' and coughing.

Back in the park an elderly dame was feeding the ducks and geese in the pond.  I wanted to point to the many signs that say NOT to feed the fowl.  But I didn't.  Who am I to deprive the winged-swimmers of tasty morsels?  Let them over-breed only to be culled!  Let their webbed-toed slayings be on your head, old lady!