My arm was twisted to volunteer as ‘marshal’ at Saturday’s Kimpton Folk Festival in the next village. The next village... that’s where the problem started... Kimptonians hate anyone from ‘Whittle’!
Last night was the briefing in their local pub... 7:30pm. A five minute drive there meant of course that I was 5 minutes late!
The pub sideroom was packed. Everyone was seated, listening to wise words from the Chairman (the arm-twister), who introduced me to the scowling villagers.
Spotting just one empty seat in the front row, I sat. Consternation! It was the Chairman’s. Another glaring mistake! Oh well!
Latest Comments
Neville Hunt (about 1 year ago)
Thanks for the note of concern, Christopher. Yes, I escaped before the mob physically turned on me. It might be a close thing on Saturday at the festival though, now that they know I’m an interloper from ‘Whittle’ (which is a far prettier, more refined and an erstwhile royal village (the late Queen’s cousin still lives here and I can see his mansion from our bedroom)... but don’t tell the Kimptonians I said any of that or they might come for me with a lynch mob!😱)
Christopher (about 1 year ago)
I take it you made it out okay (or are you writing this from the loo in the Kimpton pub?)
Published: June 28, 2023 07:53
Category: True Stories told as Fiction
Christopher (about 1 year ago)
Mum's the word.