Dog tired

We were cycling down a quiet lane on the Somerset Levels when we saw the car in the distance.  It seemed to have stopped and was blocking the road.

But when we got closer, we realised that it was moving very slowly – walking pace, you could say – and an overweight black Labrador was waddling after it,  but never quiet catching up.

Walking the dog.  The lazy way.  

On the gate

An interesting weekend, working as a volunteer steward at Charles Hazlewood’s excellent Orchestra in a Field festival at Glastonbury.

I was sent off to assist at orange gate - the artistes’ entrance.  It was quite an eye-opener. 

All were supposed to have tickets, but many turned up on the assumption that their claim as a performer or “friend of one of the organisers” would be sufficient to get in.  Even more interesting was the responses to being challenged, which varied from friendly and co-operative to downright rude and arrogant.   

The security people were excellent and left me thinking what a difficult job they had for probably little more than minimum wage.  They were also doing very long shifts, with periods of tedium interspersed with potentially challenging encounters. 

It was an interesting exhibition of power-play :  someone with fairly low status in society’s pecking order deciding whether to admit someone who clearly thought themselves at the opposite end of the spectrum. 

It didn’t particularly surprise me to observe that those who were conciliatory and reasonable got the best outcome, while the “don’t you know who I am?” approach frequently back-fired.

I came away with increased respect for the potentially tricky job the security people were doing.  They dealt with everyone in a friendly and positive manner, and with a bit of humour thrown in.  I don’t know what the entry qualifications are, but those that I saw all deserved an A* for people skills.    

A four-letter word

The black 4x4 was being thrashed along the lane as through it was off-road, and by a driver who appeared to have downed a handful of amphetamines and half a bottle of Jack Daniels. 

It came barrelling past me; briefly mounted the verge, creating a cloud of dust; and  disappeared around a bend.  But it was waiting, impatiently,  at the next junction. 

I came up behind it and was faced with a sign on the back: 

 “How’s my driving?  Ring 0800  F*** you.”      

What to make of the effect on children who see this?

And what to make of someone who sees violent driving as something to be championed and defended?