James Marston: Could I be the next Bury St Edmunds tour guide?
Well, dear readers, I’ve had that much on I haven’t baked any cheese scones for over a week.
Not only have I been finding out about being a tourist guide in Bury St Edmunds- a most interesting experience - but I have also been enjoyed what I call, and so does everyone else, the bank holiday weekend.
But let me start by thanking Eileen Salt of Frinton–On–Sea for suggesting the best way to avoid Yorkshire Pudding disaster is to get bought.
“Go to your local supermarket and buy some frozen ones,” she wrote.
“Why stand over a hot stove hoping everything will turn out aright - it seldom does!”
Eileen’s right of course and I could have done with a further helpful tip at the 2000 guineas at Newmarket where I went with my Dad on Saturday
Unfortunately my horse – Australia – came in third after an exciting race in which the winner seemed to come from nowhere leaving the crowd – who had hardly backed it – most subdued.
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Instead of cheering everyone looked a little bit glum.
After a little turn in the 2.05pm with Bold Sniper – owned by The Queen - which came in third giving me an each way place, I invested unwisely the rest of the afternoon leaving me with the consolation of a seafood luncheon and a glass of something fizzy – well I needed a pick me up.
But with the atmosphere, the thunder of hooves, the prospect of winning large amounts of cash and even a juggler – an afternoon’s racing is always good fun.
When I got back to the Edwardian spa town of Felixstowe where I have a small flat with sea views (distant) I discovered my telly is on the blink.
Now for those who live alone, they will know what a disaster this is.
Instead of being able to lie on the sofa with Columbo, a bag of crisps and a packet of Benson and Hedges, I was forced to think of things to do to amuse myself.
Forced to wean myself off a smorgasbord of Saturday night quasi-talent shows for the unfortunate and disadvantaged who think singing in a karaoke bar on a Friday is a ticket to stardom, I found myself going for a bike ride around the town.
What on earth is happening with the Spa gardens? Has anyone actually accepted any responsibility for the mess we seem to have been left with? I doubt it.
It was then, with my anger rising, I realised what tv is really all about – its brain fodder to stop us thinking about things. It’s really a load of hypnotic nonsense.
In the end I felt a lot better once I realised there’s more to life than tv – there’s The Archers.
Tom Archer leaving Kirsty at the altar – well the churchyard gate - is so gripping, so unlikely and so hilarious it made my Sunday morning so interesting I forgot to go out for a five item breakfast.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that I got so bored I did the housework.