Don't mention the war?

A meeting to organise the Village Festival today. It's almost as thrilling here as in JonnyB's village, except that we're not quite so excited about chickens; having Chicken Roundabout only a mile away makes us blasé and sophisticated.

Anyway, the posters will be marvellous. We all liked them. There is a fine portrait of a beer glass full of amber home brew (no, I'm not taking the piss (d'you see what I did there?), the village publican has a micro-brewery in his garage) with a jolly flower on a long stem poking out of the top. It really does set the scene for our village fête. It'll be interesting to see if the primary school puts a poster up and, if they do, if anyone complains.

There is to be a hanging basket and flower tub competition, a treasure hunt and a display in the church on the subject of 'childhood memories'. I have asked the Sage to write about the war. No, really, he may only have been a little boy, but he remembers a bomb landing, bouncing him off his tricycle and saying to his mother "I hope Hitler doesn't do that again!" He also remembers the American airman having bountiful supplies of Smith's Crisps (with the little blue twist of salt in every pack) and similar goodies, unobtainable by the Brits. He also has a model aeroplane, carved by airmen on their way home from a raid; it is a prized possession. As are the (empty) butterfly bombs collected by his father.

Before the meeting, I said 'hello' to the children. I confirmed that Squiffany could come and spend the afternoon with me, while Pugsley and his mother went to a singalong in the library (no signs saying 'Silence' nowadays). When I left, Pugsley cried. "Granny, Granny," he wailed. I was intensely gratified. "Want bed" he added. "What, are you tired?" I asked ... "Ah. You want to bounce on my bed. Okay."

Mind you, that afternoon he thanked me for reading to him and giving him biscuits, and gave me a kiss. Grandchildren are awfully good for one's wellbeing.