Thame has a town hall in the market square and a clock which dongs the hours
and down below a ‘one stop’ shop where all civic matters can be discussed, read about
in pamphlets, plotted on maps and gazed at in purchasable photographs. There is also
a book for comments and complaints.
That was where Norman wrote a note about a derelict and vandalised car he had
spotted near the river and that, four months later, was where he decided to write
a note congratulating them on setting the clock to rights and praising the local
rubbish collection system - they ALWAYS come on the appointed day and take EVERYTHING
and are helpful and pleasant and leave no mess behind. Londoners will not believe
this story but it is true!
Having written his words of praise he decided to read other people’s comments
and looked first at the preceding item. The handwriting seemed familiar. Yes. Indeed.
It was his own piece about the derelict car. Perhaps it should be re-named ‘Norman’s
SIXTY-FIVE IN THAME
Sixty five is getting serious, decided Jean on the morning of her birthday. Time
to stop dyeing her hair? Well, perhaps not that serious but certainly time to stop
looking silly in public. Off she went to the market and wandered in a mature fashion
among the stalls, buying some W.I. chutney, a serviceable light green beret, a small
pot of sage and packets of lettuce and spinach seed.
Unfortunately then her eye was caught by a large wigwam - rustically woven and
clearly on the verge of sprouting. It was just what Norman needed for his runner
beans. A mature person would have phoned and organised transport but it looked quite
light and she was only a mile from home and anyway one should seize a wigwam while
it is hot.
So it was that a bizarre spectacle - large wigwam, silly woman plus shopping,
manoeuvred themselves along a mile of pavement, inspiring much conversation, some
merry quips and several helpful remarks about a better way of carrying the thing.
Perhaps when she’s sixty-six she’ll stop making such a poppy show of herself!