New Year's Eve was a chaotically low key affair.
I have got to the age where I prefer working. The money is good. The hours are fair. There is something peculiarly satisfying of being stone cold sober when everyone around you cannot stand up.
The local village hosts an old pagan ceremony which involves a lot of dressing up and leaping flames and a bonfire. It is not as old as they like to think, but it is good for attracting tourists, who come in droves. I mentioned to the organisers that I was thinking of running a coach tour for the event.
Their faces darkened. The frowns deepened. The talk became more serious.
"We take a dim view and don't encourage bus tours, here." Reading between the lines, the underlying hint was 'don't even think about it!'
"Besides," they went on. "You can't park a car or bus in the village. For a start the diesel tank or petrol tank might explode." Oh yeah. I bit my tongue and nodded agreeingly.
So instead I was a spectator with my children. Still sober as a judge, having to drive a car. Everyone around me was swaying and holding some form of alcoholic drink in their hands. It was nice. It would have been nicer on double, double overtime.
No comments:
Post a Comment