I started the day with an argument.
Yesterday I went looking for a geocache in Ditton. In this case the location
was in a seriously stupid place – you have to go up a drive marked “Private” then walk along a strip of land
six feet wide between the scout hut and the fence marking off the scout hut. It
is not possible to avoid looking suspicious. The hide is clearly described (albeit 17 metres awry), and the cache
isn’t there. The GPS takes you to a mess of stinging nettles and brambles.
I had a whinge about it on the “Geocaching in Kent” Facebook page last
night and some bloke from Suffolk had a pop at me this morning saying how I
should offer the scouts who hid it help rather than criticism. He might have
had a point when the thing went live eighteen months ago, but I did thirteen
years as a scout leader. Time for someone else to give up their life. Perhaps
this bloke in Suffolk might get off his arse and help the Ditton Scouts (I typed sarcastically).
But isn’t this entirely the problem with
social media. From one or two throwaway comments we all make major judgements
about each other. For all I know this chap might be really involved in local
scouting where he lives. He might be a pillar of his local community. He might
even be the leader of the Ditton scouts and hasn’t updated his social media
profile. I just see some new name appearing on the Internet and after a few key
strokes make all sorts of assumptions about him.
The phone rang; someone with an
incredibly thick Indian accent claiming to be “Brian” gibbered on at me whilst conducting a survey about my new
Hotpoint washing machine. I agreed to everything he asked about my new Hotpoint
washing machine, all the time being fully aware that I had a rather old Hoover
one. Bearing in mind I always talk rubbish to these surveys, you have to wonder
just what value any of them have,
I then scrubbed out the food waste bin.
Whilst recycling is a good idea in theory, in practice keeping food waste about
for a week over the summer is a daft idea. If anyone can come up with a way of
doing it that *doesn’t* need a bin
full of maggots needing bleaching out every week, I’m all ears.
Knowing full well that the park run
people would be monopolising the park this morning we walked the dogs round the
co-op field instead. The walk passed off without incident; for which we were
both grateful.
I then drove us out to Linton for the
monthly geo-meet. It was good to meet up with friends and talk Tupperware. The
dogs behaved themselves too (well, Fudge
did). We came home, settled the dogs and went to Tesco for cupcakes, and
having dropped them off at the Windmill for later we came home. I ran round
with the Hoover; Treacle pissed on my bed in protest. Nice one (!)
Eventually we were ready; I drove us round to
collect "Daddy’s Little Angel TM", "Stormageddon
- Bringer of Destruction TM" and Sam, and soon we were at
the Windmill. For some years I’ve been wondering about what we should do for "er
indoors TM" big birthday. Anne and Chip had suggested a
party at the Windmill, and it was an idea which worked beyond my wildest hopes.
In retrospect we probably invited three quarters of the people we should have
done. And there’s no denying that I was getting disheartened by the amount of
people sending apologies. But we had a whale of a time. There was well over
fifty family and friends along; we couldn’t have fitted more people in. "Daddy’s
Little Angel TM" and Cheryl had made a really good job of
preparing the room and Anne and Chip had done a wonderful spread for us. And
the ale selection was not too shabby at all.
It all got rather vague towards the end… did we
really do the “Baby Shark” dance?
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