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The collected opinions of an august and aristocratic personage who, despite her body having succumbed to the ravages of time, yet retains the keen intellect, mordant wit and utter want of tact for which she was so universally lauded in her younger days. Being of a generation unequal to the mysterious demands of the computing device, Lady Bracknell relies on the good offices of her Editor for assistance with the technological aspects of her journal.

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Location: Bracknell Towers

Thursday, March 19, 2009

So, where we we?

Last weekend, Pop ran one of the annual conferences in which attempts are made to enliven the average crip lumpenproletariat sufficiently for them to stand for union office. Or, possibly, represent another disabled member with something approaching a modicum of expertise in the issues.

(Does this sound exciting yet?)

Unless these events have undergone a massive sea-change since I attended one myself ten years ago - which, coincidentally, is where I first met the illustrious Pop - I should imagine a moderately grim time was had by all. Except, I suppose, by those who think staying in a hotel, and having access to a bar, is inherently desperately exciting. Personally, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

So there Pop is, on Friday evening, occupying the bar in a stalwart manner, on the lookout for any delegates who may need to tell him the story of their lives before bursting into tears and fleeing into the night. Instead of which predictable occurrence, he is handed a beer mat by the barmaid.

Said beer mat bears the hand-scrawled legend,

"I think you're very cute"

followed by a room number and signature.

Now, the conference didn't start until Friday lunchtime, so Friday evening is too soon for Pop - who is not as young as he used to be, bless him - to have put faces to the names of all the delegates. He does, however, recognise the adoring signature as belonging to one of the aformentioned delegates. Retreating in horror, he manages to lock himself securely behind the stout door of his own hotel room without further incident.

He subsequently proceeds to spend the rest of the conference surrounded by a human shield of trustworthy persons and sedulously avoiding corners.

We imagine that the beer mat-writer, having had her advances so cruelly spurned, has spent the remainder of the weekend completely mortified, unable to believe that she did something so humiliating.

But it would appear not.

Today, Pop received the feedback forms from the event.

One of them is decorated with a big heart, his name, and the chilling statement, "You don't know what you missed".

Pop was last seen digging a bunker in his back garden whilst simultaneously changing his name by deed poll and having facial reconstructive surgery.


The Editor
PS Mr Pickard, please send me your address so that I may embark on the lengthy process of getting round to posting your book to you.

2 Comments:

Anonymous JackP said...

whoo! I won! I hadn't realised. Er... I'll send you a DM on twitter as I don't really want to post it online.

If I was a cheap tart, I'd also take this opportunity to ask for that hotel room details. Er.. well, okay then, I'm a cheap tart but this time I'll pass up said opportunity on the basis of being a married cheap tart :-)

12:16 am  
Blogger marmiteboy said...

Blimey Lady B I wondered why he wasn't about on Saturday night. No need for that particular crip to go on a Positive Action course is there?

I wonder who it is? I must say I'm curious. I mighthave to press you to spill the beans offline so I can have a good laugh at Pop's expense.

5:19 pm  

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