How not to make mistakes
Vol 10 harvest festival
As happens with some, this mistake ended up something of a happy accident but, if the powers that be were out to punish me, they got it in first so by the time it came, I had thoroughly earned the final pay off.
We were on our way, me and the twins, my inseparable soul mates, Lorraine, (blonde and willowy) and Donna (dark and squat); except in miniature, they were not too dissimilar to the Birds of a Feather girls now I think of it.
Arm in arm, it was far, far, far too delightful of a day to be on our way to harvest festival rehearsal at Sunday school. We had exchanged blood the previous night, united forever, when I’d slept at theirs and we smiled contentedly as we ambled through the streets and I picked at the bit of skin marking the prick.
Suddenly out of nowhere, a fat bee flew drunkenly into this idyllic scene and the hitherto sworn lifelong loyal duo instantly scarpered.
Ever faithful to my mother’s advice, I stood still as a statue (my own advice on such an occasion since is bugger off as fast as possible). As it became apparent that the damn bee was only interested in an apparently complicit victim – me – the twins returned to sidle up just close enough to witness with growing smug horror as the bee made its way inside my glasses and I had no option but to stare, terrified of blinking, at its hairy passage.
“Jaysus,” said Donna helpfully, “it’s as big as a jubbly.”
“If it stings her she’ll be blinded or she’ll die,” agreed Lorraine a tad eagerly.
Perhaps because of, or in spite of our destination, neither happened and, not a second too soon, shaking marginally but glad of a purpose now, we arrived closing the door on the sunshine, at Twelve Apostles Community Church harvest festival rehearsal.
To we three, there was far too much sweaty gravitas in the aforesaid festival and not enough jubilation.
“It’s boiling.” Lorraine whined.
“It’s bloody well boring,” complained Donna.
As is my calling in life, it seems, it wasn’t long before I had an idea. Spying an opportunity to spice up the interminably dismal afternoon, hand over mouth, I proposed to feign a faint which ought to be well received since it was well known I’d drop to the floor in the event of, well anything.
“If they give her some altar wine,” Lorraine brightened, “she might be struck dead.”
“Nah, she’ll be rat-arsed,” from Donna a more amusing option.
We didn’t have health and safety in those days and my, alarmingly realistic, I feel, faint brought about a minor panic culminating in Mrs-in-charge- of-tambourines lady emptying the flowers from a vase and pouring the slimy unholy water over my head.
Suffice to say my recovery was swift.
“Make sure you take her straight home,” commanded her Apostolic Majesty.
“Swear on our very blood,” promised Donna with a saintly smile and we three jostled back, alternately snorting and laughing, out onto the mercifully bee-free street.