Man from Uncle

I regret to tell you that the July midsummer picnic was every bit as glorious as we might have predicted, since we are not Continentals complaining about it being too hot for siestas.

I am pleased, however, to announce that there had been no cows in occupation. The field was not even muddy, with long, rain-drenched grass, and hence my feet stayed clean, although soaking wet, and so cold that they did not thaw out again until hours afterwards, when they were finally warmed by the taxi heater at work.

Also there were no local worthies to be ridiculed later, and on the whole the event was attended by civilised individuals, most of whom seemed to be Mark’s uncles, and there was even a tent, which helped.

Kentmere is a beautiful place, even in the rain, and the field was surrounded by woods, beside a very full river. We all sighed that the sunshine had not appeared, because everybody had wondered, hopefully, if they might swim, but it has rained a lot lately, and it was cold, and dangerously fast. Instead, by means of rural entertainment, one of Mark’s uncles had provided a digger, which they had parked at the far end of the field, so that the children could amuse themselves digging holes if they felt like, which they all did, even the tiniest ones, encouraged by shouted advice from passing uncles.

Mark said that this had been the way he had learned.

The party was to continue for long into the night. We were obviously not going to join in for this amount of Bacchanalian revelry, because of Saturday night being taxi night, although some people had even brought camping arrangements, along with several crates of beer.

The afternoon was largely occupied with a very wet game of rounders. This started off as a means of occupying the non-digging children, but once somebody had cracked open the Prosecco, most of the adults joined in as well, including, admirably, one of Mark’s uncles who has neither hands nor feet, and manages with prosthetic ones. If  it had been a film he would somehow have managed to catch the winning ball, or make the winning rounder, but it was real life, so he did neither, just stood at Third Base and laughed, but it should have been a film, because he jolly well deserves it.

I did not join in, because I do not have a prosthetic foot, but a fat real one, with a protruding sore bit. Instead I stood on the sidelines trying to think of sociable things to say to people, and making admiring noises whenever anybody hit or caught the ball, which was not really very often, but nobody seemed to mind.

Mark’s ex-girlfriend was there. She stayed friendly with Mark’s family even after they split up, probably because she is more enthusiastic about farming than I would ever be, and also because an uncle bounced in and snapped her up when Mark took his leave. I have long secretly suspected that she might have been the running favourite in his matrimonial stakes as far as his family was concerned, she is such friends with his mother that when his mother comes back to visit she quite often stays there.

They have both been stoic about this disappointment.

I hung around and chatted to Mark’s ex-girlfriend, whom I quite like, and threw a spare ball for the dogs, to stop them gatecrashing the game of rounders, which was their chief interest in the proceedings, at least until the barbecue started. They stopped bringing the ball back to me after a while, and instead fought one another for noisy possession of it, until it was shredded into a thousand useless pieces which I had to kick, surreptitiously, under the side of the tent, in the hope that nobody would ask for it.

Eventually it rained so hard that even Lake District farmers felt it might be time for graceful surrender, and the barbecue was lit, underneath a gazebo erected by several uncles, all of whom knew best the optimum means of gazebo-erection.

It was getting late by then, and we had to go.

I was almost a bit sorry to be working.