Back up to The Chookery from Somerset with the two younger Chickabiddies on Saturday. A long drive, but a pleasant one until the motorway reached Motherwell; after that, it was roadworks and traffic jams all the way until past Glasgow Airport. The weather was superb and it was a fine day for the village to have its annual fun day. Due to our arrival home at five o’clock, we missed the day’s events, but were back in time to go to the evening hop in the village hall. We arrived, in the English habit, about half an hour after the advertised start time to find, in the Scottish habit, people just arriving to set up the band, barbecue et cetera. Being Scotland, events run typically until one in the morning, and people arrive accordingly about nine in the evening when they expect things to start getting going. Still, the bar was open and there were quite a few people I knew, which is always a sign of settling in to a place, so caught up with some of the local news.
I suppose this is the time to mention that Chickabiddy “K” is a fifteen-year-old girl with blossoming good looks, because there were a couple of teenage lads down on holiday, who could not keep their eyes off her. All very entertaining as a dad to watch. When the barbecue got going we had some venison burgers and watched the band. If you imagine the Travelling Wilberries and remove the majority of the talent, you’ll get the idea. Actually, that’s a little harsh; they were a competent guitar band playing rock standards, but were enhanced by two female vocalists who, to be fair, were not really in their mileu, which is probably a well-tiled shower room somewhere in an isolated cottage on an otherwise uninhabited island.
Her Maj enjoyed the music and spent a lot of her time up on her toes jigging around as only she can. She managed to haul me out of my chair to strut my stuff on a few occasions and I managed to enjoy myself doing it. Actually, I always enjoy dancing with Her Maj, although I doubt the pleasure would extend to any observers of the proceedings. I got the daughter up to strip the willow, which was a seemingly endless progressive dance which became the more confused as the music changed and people got bored and sat down.
In the end we returned home about eleven o’clock, leaving the hall jumping. I’ve just re-read that last sentence and it conjures up several daft images, but I can’t be bothered to edit it at this stage; the reader will just have to cope with it as best as s/he can.