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The Secret of Life

September 16, 2010

The secret of life, it occurs to me, might be that we should all fling ourselves at it like Morris dancers, bells ringing, never fearing that people might point and laugh or that our sticks might break as we knock them against someone elses.

Yes, I have had a wee G&T, how did you know?

Crapsticks, this was meant to be an ode to the Thames, and the Thames Festival, and here I am dwelling on Morris dancers and the secret of life. Enough. I will say this though. One of the things I love and miss about this country is the way the seasons are properly marked. And by marked, I mean celebrated. The fact that this doesn’t happen so much in Australia is not entirely Australia’s fault, the change of seasons being so vague that some have even begun to refer to the middling period between winter and spring as sprinter. (I think it was Tim Entwistle from the Sydney Botanic Gardens who first coined the phrase, don’t ask me how I know, I’m not sure, it’s just one of those things that’s lodged in my brain. Oh, shit, I just looked it up, apparently he’s proposing sprummer as well, can you imagine?)

Anyway anyway anyway. I loves me a good festival (no shock there), and had a lovely weekend strolling up and down the Thames Festival celebrations, which is all about celebrating the end of summer and heralding the start of autumn (which has most definitely arrived). There was dancing, and market stalls and festival food and a carnival and yes, there were Morris dancers. It was splendid.

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