Coming second in an ice cream eating competition is a bit like that card in Monopoly — 'you have won second prize in a beauty contest'. I am not down in the dumps, however. There is no disgrace in being pipped at the post by a ponytailed human Dyson. And anyway, I was given this car as a prize.
I attended my own private, imaginary regatta at the weekend — no boats involved at all. The lovely Bev, our milk lady, picked Lady Norkington and me up in her bright pink Land Rover with the words 'girls just wanna have fun' emblazoned on the side. Quelle hoot.
Last night was a first and a life enhancing experience for me as I made my first faltering skips towards fully fledged Morrisdom in a scout hut in Whittle le Woods. And I have to thank my new found chums of the Royal Preston Morris Dancers for introducing me to the English 'martial art'. Look out for me in traditional clogs and natty velvet cap hopefully in the not too distant future merrily frolicking and waving a stick outside a pub near you. And wish me luck as I embark upon a pastime which apparently, according to some sources, along with bum sex, is listed among activities that a man should never ever try. I'm just going to concentrate on the dancing for the time being.
