This morning’s “inclement” weather wiped out the annual Strawberry Fair in the town’s Catholic church gardens. The event was carefully timed to catch passing trade from Ramsey’s Civic Week, which in turn hoped to clean up in Tynwald week.
If I sound amused by the ruined fair, that would be because I am. Three years ago, my wife – locally famous as an excellent baker for good causes – was asked to enter a cake in their Strawberry Fair cake contest. The prize is inconsequential and most enter just for fun, with all the cakes being sold off for church funds. Having friends at the church, she happily joined in, and to nobody’s surprise won.
Everyone involved looked forward to next year, and tasting another phenomenal cake. She obliged, but that year the priest invited his nephew – a novice priest with an intellect fit only for a Craggy Island posting – to be guest judge. So, about a dozen strawberry cakes to choose from and this prime candidate for canonisation chooses …. a cheesecake without even an ornamental strawberry. Because he only eats cheesecake.
All making for a rainy but happy morning in this house. If only the rain keeps up for tomorrow, when the local Rotarians take over the park for their annual cringefest, yet again overrun by fake charities wanting more money to spread faith-based misogynism.
As per usual, my better half was cornered by a career criminal from one of the worst to provide cakes. Over the years, wiser locals either cross the street when such freaks approach or develop the diplomatic skills to sidestep constant demands on personal time.
Sadly, the light of my life is too kind, even to otherwise unemployable psychobabblers like this one. So, most of today lost while she bakes, and a big chunk of tomorrow lost delivering them and collecting the empties later.
Judging by past form, we also expect these panhandlers will pack away more than half of her produce for their own consumption, and would not put it past them to leave her minding the stall for the day because they are too lazy and ill-mannered to beg for their own loot.
By rights, we should get mad, but the chance to regularly observe people with room temperature IQs at close quarters is such a hoot. And their arrogance in considering themselves fit people to deal with social casualties is such a bad joke anyway.
Only last week, for example, the oldest sibling in a family of evangelical careerists we first heard of involved in some dodgy East European child adoption scheme proudly announced that the youngest family member has “returned to Jesus” after her post-school career path into the family business culminated in two years vegging out on heroin.
Wow, Jesus must be happy. When his most devoted followers are such losers I sometimes wonder if he can get through the day without industrial dosages of Prozac.