Time to Think

            

There is a Buddhist centre less than one cigarette’s distance from my house which I’ve walked past many times but tonight I’m walking in. I’ve booked myself on a meditation course called “Letting go.” 3 Wednesday nights from 7 until 8 with refreshments after.

                I am uncomfortable with places of worship. I see them as cold and restrictive with lots of rules and apologies for things I haven’t done (yet) but this aimed to be far more relaxed and free. I am also uncomfortable with people sitting in a field singing “Kum-By-Yar My Lord”, all with a uniform of smiles and joy but here I am, sitting in a relaxed room with happy people. In silence.

                We sang a prayer accompanied by a CD of a guitar (I say we, a few sang while others mouthed the words like school assembly or a goldfish that was the prize at a fare) and settled into a ten minute relaxation meditation before Darren talked through the possible stresses in life, interestingly mostly focussing on family life and kids with occasional references to work. He seems a decent man and very genuine and, according to these topics, I must be stress free.

                Darren moved on to the “Four Nobel Truths” as taught by Buddha but with a modern take before finishing with a meditation reflecting on what he had talked about.

                I didn’t stay for refreshments this first week and I didn’t talk to a single person. I didn’t smile with anyone which is very unlike me and I was out of my comfort zone but on the way home I noticed as I smoked that I felt very relaxed and for a brief moment, very positive.

Next week I’ll stay a bit longer.

THE PLAYGROUND

“My mum cooks baked beans until they are on FIRE but she never burns them. She never burns them but when I scoop them up and into my mouth they stick to the top and they cook me and burn me until flames are coming out of my mouth and steam is bellowing through my nostrils.”

“She’s a witch,” stated Claire. Her frizzy ginger hair was plaited.

“Your Mum’s not a witch” Rupert protested. His eyes were looking into his shoes. His left one had come undone. “She’s nice.”

“Not all witches are nasty, “added Claire, “there are white witches too.”

Robert was duffle coat and glasses and bike lock sensible. “There can’t be nice witches and nasty witches ‘cos there are no such thing as witches.”

            “But if there were,” I reasoned, “Mum would be a good witch.”

“Yeah, I like your Mum. She’s a good egg” added Rupert, his feet were doing an awkward slow motion first class of tap-dancing move and his shoes were scuffed, he noticed.

 “Eggs can be good, and they can be bad.” Reasoned Robert. “My Mum can tell the difference by putting them in water. If they float they’re bad, if they sink they’re good.” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. It may be the other way ‘round.”

 “Didn’t they do that with witches?”

  

Chilli, Boats, Music, Morris Dancers and Rubber Ducks. "It's Festival Time."

Today Reading has gone festival mad and there is no Bank Holiday Monday to follow.

                My housemate Nat called from the landing to check for signs of life and that I wasn’t cancelling because we are heading to town for the Chilli festival before moving on to the Water festival and some music (and drama) at the Abbey Ruins. Nat has been a friend since I was young(ish) and foolish. Now she tolerates and I think at times enjoys the old fool. The first time we met had chilli’s and dark Morris Dancing and both were involved today, in part.

We began with Chilli’s.

                Nat has an asbestos tongue and a sword-bearing mentality but she doesn’t like the taste of wood so in the health and safety and hygiene world of 2019 that means sampling peppers that could rip out your internal organs has become tricky. There are wooden, disposable forks but there is less bread available to sample their fiery delights.

                We had Chilli “Gummy Bears” though.

              

  Forbury Gardens was alive by the time we got there with the relentless pulse of music, food, people and the Lion who doesn’t walk like a Lion. We zig-zagged and shimmied through though, heading for the newly repaired ruins of the Abbey. The order of play was in sight but so were the ‘happy not dark’ Morris Dancers so to get to the list we risked being dragged into an alien world of bells and white socks (and far too much hand clapping.)

                What draws a person to Morris Dancing? I must meet one and find out but not today.

                The events we are interested in are hours away but the water is near so we headed to the tow path.

There’s a rubber duck race!”

                What fully grown man could resist this?

Not this one. £1 for 3 ducks as I joined the queue. Actually, I made the queue because there was only one in front but it wasn’t an express lane.

“There’s got to be an easier way than this but I can’t find it.”

The ‘Duck Lady’s’ resigned tone didn’t suggest she had spent too much time searching for it.

“And someone forgot her glasses.”

She suggested a gesture to her colleague and we all knew who she meant. My pound collided with the other coins and the Tupperware while my three ducks stumbled into the plastic barrel.

              

  The first boat we saw had a sign blu-tacked to the widow saying ‘volunteers required’ but there was no-one to volunteer my services to. It’s early though. The next boat had straw inspired scare crows and humanised Coke bottles (!), then the Canal and Waterways charity before finally “The Grumpy Goat” cheese and Ale. We stopped here.

               

There are probably only a handful of things that make me smile more than a child with a balloon which I witnessed today. A child dropping a balloon and an adult desperately trying to rescue it while the wind teases it away. Bent in an undignified, childish manner genuinely believing this time will be different as the balloon once more wriggles free. Fantastic! (Another is “Large White Baps” in Tesco, always makes me smile.)

***

The weather is, according to Nat (and the un-available on Android Nat App,) schizophrenic while families argue and friends smile but there is overwhelmingly a balloon culture to the day as we headed to a play that was being performed. It was a period drama that we witnessed with the cast dressed in jeans and Nike trainers and printed scripts. It was good but we left before the conclusion to watch the Gospel Choir.

                The Choir sang well and with an enthusiasm that was infectious until all that was left was “La Morte Subite,” a band that do not fit anymore than they want to. Zarand, the band leader/singer/ dis-organiser/ hurdey-gurdey (I’ve no idea either!) player, was a neighbour of Nat’s before I knew her and he is a man who’s sense of excitement is infectious. The man with the happiest smile I have seen coupled with a Jools Holland joy and an ability to play the accordian, guitar, triangle and the hurdey-gurdey.

                It is Gypsy music and it is happy. Defiantly happy. Sung and shouted in several languages with one message (and no sense of chronological time.)

                We stopped at “The Nag’s Head” for a final pint and I checked my phone.

                No missed call.

                No text message.

My rubber duck didn’t win.