26 September 2013 (Thursday) - In Trumpington..
Following a very busy and exciting and late night last night I slept right through until 5am this morning. I woke to find a small dog curled up at the end of the bed. He really shouldn't be there, but I let him sleep, and went downstairs for brekkie and the last episode of the mini-series of "Mrs Biggs". Charmian has now left Ronnie, and has made a life for herself in Australia. All seemed to be well that ended well. But that's TV drama. I suspect real life was different. As I mentioned the other day, having watched the series based on real people's experiences and crimes I can't help but wonder what I would have done in their position.
I then left for work slightly earlier than usual to hunt for the day's cache. It was still dark so I took a torch. I hate caching in the dark; you look incredibly suspicious and you can't actually see anything. I failed to find three different caches whilst scrubbling in the darkness in various places, and was nearly (but not quite) late for work.
As I drove I listened to the news. There was an interesting and entertaining article about a scandal emanating from the picturesque Cambridgeshire village of Trumpington.
Apparently the village hall had been booked for what seemed to be a bona fide engagement, but had been billed on muckier sies on the Internet to be something featuring spanking, flogging and "kink on a budget". I had no idea that bondage parties were booked into village halls. The good villagers of Trumpington were simularly ignorant and were shocked. And rightly so. Someone has to take a moral stance in these depraved times. And their doing so saves me having to make the effort. Mind you part of me can't help but wonder if they had actually done anything wrong.
The prude being interviewed on the radio tried to appear to be open-minded and claimed that her objection was that their hall was being booked for people who didn't live in the area. She claimed that they wanted the village hall to be used for locals. She didn't convince me of her sincerity.
It was a shame that this revelation was immediately followed by an article about an amazing discovery in space. Rather than talking about pulsars the pundits picked up on the fact that the discoverer of the first pulsar to be found hailed from Cambridgeshire, and would not shut up with implications of depravity.
And so to work, where the French lessons continued. Maintenant il y a un canard dans l'arbre. Le canard est bati un bibloteque pour les enfants. Il n'y a pas des enfants dans l'abre, mais l'oiseau est tres stupide. Peut etre il est capable a apprendre de la bibloteque pour les enfants. Aussi il y a un gendarmerie dans l'arbre just que l'oiseau est batard encore un fois.
I don't think my student is learning quite as well as he might; nor is he finding much opportunity to apply his newfound knowledge.
In between telling the assembled throng about life in French trees I did my bit, and then came home the scenic route via Canterbury's city wall. In a complete contrast to the morning's caching fiasco I found two caches in as many minutes...