Rescuing things is a virtue that people are losing the will to do these days.
I hear a voice hushing my thoughts from a summer of English madness, where we loved under parasol’s set out on a vicarage lawn. Garden fetes with fat ladies and the mother’s union on a 1950’s BBC TV screen.
The Hoi Polloi dancing through the blue bell woods with posh stuck up girls eating, ‘Mummies sandwiches.’ Me disgraced by a fart echoing from short trousers, a snatched back piece of cake.
The Vicar giving the blessing, it’s a funny thing I never did learn to eat with my fork the right way up!
Those girls went on to marry millionaires and prigs, and mostly ended up with the gin bottle hidden in the cupboard and Mogadon in the chocolate box
How I hated those days of Enid Blyton horror.
No one came to rescue me then and they don’t come now.