Just a Perfect Day

A couple of days sunshine, and the Midlands becomes another place.

On Friday, I took Darcy up to the Memorial Park. I’m used to having the place more or less to myself, occasionally in the company of a park keeper on a mower, and a jogger in waterproofs. It had been sunny all day. When I arrived at 3pm the car park was full and the grass was littered. Littered with crisp packets and also with people who just didn’t seem to have visited a park before. Teenage girls sat cross legged in fairy ring circles, while boys without footballs kicked empty cans in diverse directions while eyeing the girls’ pale flesh. Amongst the families were an unusual number of dog-phobics. I’m cautious around unfamiliar animals and don’t like barking or jumping up, so I sort of get them. I don’t like to see anybody distressed by my dogs, but some people act unreasonably in what is a park where dogs off lead are allowed. People with kids: get over it, how much damage do you think my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel is going to do to you and your offspring, especially if he’s ten feet away and sniffing a tree? The somewhat frenetic energy about the place had left me tense, and so I cut my intended route short.

Saturday, Nick and I took a trip to Birmingham. I have very mixed feelings about the city, some days struggling with the grubbiness of the streets, competitive driving style and the overcrowding. This was a perfect day though. Presumably many people had gone to find greenspace because the shops were running at and easy going pace. It is a rare day that Nick and I enjoy each others company while shopping, but this was one such time. I relaxed the budget a little and once we had bought Nick a good bag for work, we had a nice healthy lunch and a posh ice-cream as a treat. I felt like the me of several years ago, chatting with a stranger in a queue and joking with two little girls whose Dad was carrying an unfeasibly large bunch of balloons into a lift. Nick even let me tease him a little by getting him a tropical fruit salad rather than the sticky bun he requested. There was a bad sitcom moment when, in a bookshop plastered with posters advertising Richard Herring’s soon to be published book. Nick helpfully suggested that I get hold of the lifesize on and display it at home. I was sent by staff from desk to desk and floor to floor in search of tickets for the book read, winding up paying for this unashamedly adult entertainment at the children’s desk.