May Day. Cherry blossom, honey bees, the orangey glow of the sun setting on pastures green. Morris Men dancing in the arrival of summer.

With me as their subject.

I was this year’s Kennet Morris Men‘s ‘Valentine’ – the subject of a ritual performed about me for reasons of fertility and well being. So the crops will grow. I like to do my bit.

When the dance was over, the Morris Men hoisted me into the air and carried me aloft back to my picnic bench, (unfortunately wet grass meant I was also dropped rather unceremoniously), where I was thus shielded by handkerchiefs to protect my modesty, and presented with this exclusive pin for my troubles:

May your radishes be fecund and your barley be strong and good!

Have I always stood like a duck?

Why did no one tell me?

I have always loved Easter. Possibly even a little bit more than Christmas, and I’m trying to decide why.

Maybe it’s because Easter isn’t quite as commercialised as Christmas, and there isn’t the requisite amount of shopping involved. Also things are open at Easter – including the curry buffet.

Additionally, this time of year sees a proliferation in the amount of cute fluffy things to cuddle. Sometimes Neil stands still long enough to let me.

Indeed, the world just feels like a lighter, brighter more positive place to live in, AND you get to eat Chocolate for breakfast! I also like that the people who make chocolate at Easter are more puritan in their methods, and are less likely to poison this heavenly substance with anything obscene like Turkish Delight or marzipan, as is so often the way at Christmas.

Indeed there are many reasons to rejoice at this time of year, and so today will largely see me light of heart, with a giddy smile, and what might appear to slightly brown tinted lipstick…

Happy Easter everyone x

We had Fish and Chips at the ‘TG’ AGM last night, it was quite the scandal.

Townswomen’s Guild (or ‘TG’ if you’re one of the cool kids) is a slightly more urban centric version of the WI. Last night marked the anniversary of my membership and the payment of my 2012/13 subs. I maintain it’s the best £24 I will spend this year.

It all began when my dear Mum, who is not a driver, read that guild meetings were being held at the village hall, and would it be possible to chauffeur her to the next one, seeing as it clashed with Dad’s ‘Emmerdale’. Being the dutiful daughter that I am, I agreed, and even said that I would keep my Mum company for the first evening at her new club. I of course stuck out like a sore thumb, and as we took seats at the back of Victoria Hall, gasps of ‘Ooooh, there’s a young one’ began to resonate…

Indeed, I found TG quite intimidating at first. Older women ‘en masse’ seem to have this effect on me. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m heavily suspicious of anything that old being able to carry a handbag that large, or that hankies up sleeves have always freaked me out, and where present in vast numbers, I find it quite overwhelming. Still I calmed down once the first meeting had begun, and then to my surprise, I found myself rather in my element.

I have a very warped sense of humour you see, so much of Townswomen’s Guild appeals to me, particularly the serious nature of its proceedings. Pam will open the evening with an incredibly warbley rendition of the minutes of the last meeting, so uncomfortable that all members remain on the edge of their seats until these have concluded, and then have to suppress an applause that poor Pam is still upright. Next is the education report (scrabble) followed by forthcoming dates for ‘book club’, ‘lunch club’, ‘ramblers club’, and ‘social club’ – the latter I believe is a splinter group of ‘lunch club’ that decided to go their own way after a disagreement over quality of quiche at the Fox and Hounds. Or so I hear. Formalities are then wrapped up with a hand count for tea or coffee, which is served strong, gritty and with a ginger biscuit – hobnobs at Christmas.

The next best thing are the speakers. There has been the lady who makes baskets out of cable ties and other household products, the chap who gave us a demonstration (in full) on how to mince beef, the lady from ‘Dogs for the Deaf’ who’s Puppy was sick on the Chairwoman, and the other lady who they thought sang Operetta, but actually performed a variation of ‘beat boxing’ with cutlery, which actually turned out to be rather good. My most favourite speaker to date however, is a gentleman named ‘Alan’ who delighted us with his ‘big picture show’. This comprised a collection of slides Alan that had taken on latest coach trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, set to rousing music, and with engaging commentary. Unfortunately all but 3 of the 52 examples of historic architecture Alan had immortalised, were obscured by a large range of inanimate objects including road signs, transit vans, trees, pillar boxes, washing lines, hair-dos, Alan’s thumb, and on a number of occasions, the actual coach which had made this momentous trip possible.

And so you see why £24 in the grand scheme of things is an absolute bargain, and being in the company of ladies who think eating fish and chips out of a box without metal cutlery is the equivalent in raciness to not wearing knickers to church, is so endearing.

TG is truly where’s it’s at.

Amy:  Neil, I’m just about to start ironing, do you mind watering the lawn?

Neil: Umm…….

Amy: I think that is a fair division of labour

Neil: Hmm…..yeah ok then…

Amy: Ummm…Neil?

Neil: What?

And so it begins.

Just down the road from my office is a little cafe called the Brown Bag.

Sometimes – although normally on a Friday – the youngest members of the office decamp here and we enjoy a whole solitary hour in the comfort of the big brown leather sofas, putting the world to right over a luxurious strawberry milkshake.

Except me, since I can only enjoy anything dairy now in moderation, so I make do with a tea.

You see, apparently one of my ‘enzymes’ has gone missing.

The local constabulary since however have told me “it is not a police matter”.

Deeply disappointing.

Where I work we have quite a unique way of doing things when it comes to car parking. Due to the limited grounds surrounding the Council Offices, employees are issued with a free pass that entitles you to free parking in any one of 3 public car parks in Wokingham Town Centre. As I travel in on the M4 I have been given a pass for a car park the other side of town, about a brisk 10 minutes walk from the (dis)comfort of my office chair.

Although initially I was rather miffed at adding an extra 20 mintues onto my working day, especially as it takes at least 45 minutes in the car to reach Wokingham, I have since got the hang of my small hike across town and find it a great way to either prepare myself or wind down from a raucous day in the planning office.

Plus I love the little bits of peoples lives I experience, especially in the morning, all in the space of just under a mile.

Normally I arrive at my car park at approximately 08:20 which means I can make it to my desk for an even 08:30 unless anything unforseen apprehends me on the way, like the other morning when a disability scooter had broken down outside of the bakery causing a pedestrian pile up, or the time a young mum lost a wheel from her buggy which I dutifully chased after. Otherwise, without fail, my morning walk resembles the same pattern of people and events that if I’m honest, I would miss if I was given a different parking pass;

At approximately 08:23 an alarm clock will go off at the house with the blue door as I exit my car park (I’m guessing the clock is slow or the owner a little quirky…). On the street corner by the art gallery I pass by a lady with very curly hair taking two small boys to school, the elder one always lagging slightly behind. As I walk up the high street the chap who owns the pet shop puts out the rabbit hutches he stores in a lock-up to the side of his property, a lady will be waiting in the entrance of the estate agents, presumably for the key holder, and the girl with the alternative taste in leggings will walk through the door of the hairdressers.

As I approach the town hall I often see two ladies walk by, deep in conversation and wearing sky blue t-shirts who I think work in the travel agent. Walking past the bank, a professional looking gentleman with a tan briefcase will say hello to me – I still can’t decide if I know him from somewhere or not….

A little further down the road I will wave to my friend Karim who owns a sandwich shop in town as he runs to the newsagent to get his daily paper before the second shift starts. Finally as I round the corner past the barber shop, with my office in sight, I will pass a full figured lady who has the most beautiful smiling face - the sort of person you can never imagine being angry or sad. We normally smile and wish each other a good morning.

I then scrabble about in my bag looking for my security pass to try and get into the Council building. Carl, the caretaker, who stands in the main entrance each morning will often take pity on me and open the tempremental automatic doors, usually at the point where I have started emptying the contents of my handbag onto the pavement.

I do wonder sometimes whether people think of me – normally a little bit grumpy looking (due to it being a.m.), quite often with ‘happy hair’ and remenants of toothpaste still lingering around my mouth – as part of their morning routine as I regard them.

In a way I find it a little sad that we share a part of each others lives on an almost daily basis, yet it is quite likely we will always remain strangers….

To be honest though, if one of them stopped along their way and started a conversation with me ,I’m sure I would be a little taken aback.

But I hope I would think of something to say….

Because all friends start out as strangers. And you can never have too many friends.

In fact I think this chap is spot on: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6958227.stm