Mobile Homme

edgehill1 You know how I am always the last to know what is going on on this here internet? Well it's like that where I live too. Entirely wonderful things happen on my doorstep and because no-one thinks to tell me and I am utterly oblivious to most things happening beyond my own four walls, I miss them and mourn experiences I haven't had.

So it was with Mobile Homme, a spectacular brought to my old university, Edge Hill College, by Transe Express. There I was waiting to collect my child on the school playground, when one by one people came over to ask me if I was going to Mobile Homme. Now the thing is this: I am not the kind of person who likes to look as if she hasn't a clue what people are talking about, so I wore a rather wonderful bewildered but knowing look until curiosity got the better of me and I had to shout, What the heck are you all talking about??

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Within a minute I was equipped with both tickets and company, and parking my car at Edge Hill ready to partake in a veritable banquet of pulled pork sandwiches and fresh fruit, candy floss, popcorn and enough sweets to hasten the arrival of diabetes: all served absolutely free with enough lemonade to sink a ship!

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I wandered around a little starry eyed: though Edge Hill is just five minutes away from home, it has been twenty years since I have walked around it, and it was odd and lovely to be on my old stomping ground again, so changed and still so very much the same. A person could almost be drawn back to the bliss of education...

In the meantime Finley and his friend were being entertained by a rather hot, but deeply silent photographer: a man who had the kids up the wall wrapping them in scarves and silly glasses and telling them off when they wouldn't pick their nose for the camera, while the rest of us were in fits at his fake despair...

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And then the fun began, out of nowhere one man and his flea show trundled by and we knew the show was about to begin. A crowd arrived from nowhere and surged forward and in the midst of it came a group of pale faced nattily dressed soldiers banging drums and instantly frightening the wits out of Finley who described them as psychopathic ghostly clowns and burst into dramatic tears...

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By this time I had managed to semi-drag him around the lovely buildings of Edge Hill, hot on the trail of the banging drums while Finley practiced something he hasn't done since he was six and deeply frightened of mannequins in shops -namely allowing the entire weight of his body to sink to his shoes until he is almost an immovable force.

So I did what Mummies do and pointed out how every other child in the vicinity was delirious with excitement for at any moment the drummers were about to be hoisted into the air and perform above our heads hung and spinning like marionettes. I told him he was safe and Mummy was here and I wasn't about to let a ghostly clown, psychopathic or otherwise, steal him away and he was nearly ten and maybe it time he got a gentle grip of himself?

And he buried his head in my stomach and sobbed big, fat silly tears and as soon as the drums started up again, he ran for his life, into the deserted halls of my college, while I stood about missing the entire show and secretly muttering, oh for heavens sake!

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And he buried his head in my stomach and sobbed big, fat silly tears and as soon as the drums started up again, he ran for his life, into the deserted halls of my college, while I stood about missing the entire show and secretly muttering, oh for heavens sake!

Eventually we sat on the floor, my little scaredy-cat and I, while outside the 1200 strong crowd oohed and aahed and Finley discussed the nature of fear, don't you know Mum, we are all scared of something: with me it's psychopathic clowns.   And we laughed and I ran out and took a photograph and ran back in to unplug Finn's fingers from his ears and kiss his daft tears away and tell him this was a fear he probably never needed to confront again, and then all but carried him back through the crowd so we could grab our friends and get the hell out of the kinda joint where men took to the skies and banged drums so loud your heart beat in your ears.

He may be a wimp, but he's my little wimp...

On My Wishlist...