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Wednesday, January 11, 2023

188 A Wet Wednesday

Woburn Sands High Street was surprisingly busy for a wet, chilly Wednesday afternoon but I managed to find a parking space only about 50 yards from Pikesleys.  

I walked through the driving rain and entered the shop.  

“Two sacks of kindling wood please?”  

“That’s thirteen pounds twenty.”  

A year ago, they were £3.50 a bag.  The shopkeeper blames Putin.  

As I walked to the door, a bag in each hand, a tiny, frail old lady, bent over her walking stick, looked up and asked me if I would like her to open the door.  

“That would be great,” I said, “and perhaps you could open the boot of my car as well,” I added, with what I hoped was a cheery, cheeky grin.  

“Thanks very much,” I said, as I ventured past her, out into what seemed like a wall of rainwater.  

I slowly struggled once more through a howling gale.  A howling gale that seemed to have changed direction through 180 degrees so that I was again struggling to make any progress on the wet, slippery pavement.  

I reached the car, put down one sack and searched for the key in my jacket pocket.  

“Is it locked?” asked a voice from my side.  

I was aghast.  

“I was joking about you opening the boot.  Didn’t you realise?”   

 

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