Thursday, August 29, 2013
The busy have no time for tears.
There is a jam factory in the little market town. In fact it's not so much a factory more a corrugated iron shed. An unprepossessing little building that stands on a patch of ground next to where the long gone train station used to be. It seems that today is the jam sheds 125th birthday. The firms eight employees are celebrating in style.
In front of the cafe a group of jolly musicians , hired specially for the occasion , are clambering onto a tractor drawn trailer. They're not going anywhere because the tractor driver is in the cafe enjoying a pre-breakfast libation. Finally, after much tooing and froing , trailer, driver , employees and musicians are united. They circle round the market square three times before heading off , the wrong way, down the one way street that leads to the Post Office. The oompah oompah oompah of the band slowly fading into the distance.
Bob and Sophie are intrigued. They stand by me as if glued to the spot . Bobs tail wags twenty to the dozen. He would like this to happen every morning. Excitement over, they get their illicit half croissant and shared bowl of water from the waitress. Sophie is happy that all is once again right with the world.
Last night and this morning the constant roar of aircraft heading south east ; Syria bound. Higher and faster than commercial flights. The hinge of history turning again.