I’m a
traditionalist – that is I believe in bookshops more than the web. Indeed, I
still regard the web as something strange, like manna dropped from heaven. The
fact that it is interactive blows my mind and I so wish I understood how
noughts and crosses could connect you with someone several thousand miles away
in less time than it takes for me to type noughts and crosses. One
or two generations down the line – the situation is very different. Yesterday, trying
to decide whether it was worth driving to Glastonbury – it was raining at the
time – my daughter and her boyfriend dialled up their phones to check the
progress of the storm clouds.
I have proved
equally inept at social media, despite hours of input and chat, liking and
sharing, output remains desultory, as my royalty cheques from Amazon prove. Of
course, I may well have shot myself in the foot by changing genres and age
groups at such a late stage in my writing life. For that you can blame ‘Girl
with a Pearl Earring’ and ‘The Minaturist’ So after 12 years or more writing
for children and ya’s, I now write fantasy for adults/top teens. The Year the
Swans Came – was published at the end of October, with Book 1 of the trilogy,
Children of Zeus, in 2019
And so, since
all other methods seem redundant, as the doyenne of classrooms and lecture
halls, I have decided to talk my way into social media, hence Sunday night videos
sessions. Once, I get the technology
sorted, I will pick out short stories from other writers and read those. So do
stay with me!
Having said
all that: my piece today is: Going Bananas.
Did you know fishing is the most popular sport in
Britain? I didn’t. When I did think about it, I found myself speculating as to
whether an activity, which consists of catching a fish and throwing it back in
again, can ever be called sporting.
Be that as it may; according to
officialdom fishing is still more popular than golf. Although, if you really
come to think about it, chasing a white ball for five miles is pretty silly
too!
Nevertheless, I am convinced that
statistics will support the statement that golfers consume more bananas than
any other sporting group.
Golfers, the length and breadth of
Britain, have discovered the magical properties of slow release carbohydrates
which sustain them until they hole out on the 18th, while the skins,
nonchalantly flicked into the bushes, provide food for birds or compost for the
ground.
Among golfers, therefore, the
commonplace banana has acquired an almost mystical
reputation.
'Would you like a banana? I've
brought two,' will follow a particularly nasty slice on the 10th, which lands
your ball in the woods, and your partner trying to conceal his/her irritation.
And missing a 6ft putt on the
fourth will initiate immediate consumption of a banana, since you are totally
convinced that its healing powers will remedy your tendency to pull your putts.
In which case, a similar distance on the 5th green will prove no problem.
It comes as no surprise, therefore,
when faced with playing an Open on an unknown course in Cornwall, I decided to
buy some bananas. At that point, little did I realise my search would take me
the length and breadth of the county, before arriving at the inescapable
conclusion that bananas have never been heard of south of Devon.
'Bananas!'
The reaction which greeted my
polite enquiry was similar to that of a greengrocer in the Second World War,
whose shop contained one orange.
Having discovered that the words,
'Country Store', which in Somerset heralds a roadside fruit and veg stand, related
to corrugated sheds spewing out paving stones and lengths of wood (believe me I
visited five), I decided to check out all the villages along the A392. Someone,
somewhere, has to sell bananas.
Cornwall is to be complimented on
the quality of its 'A' roads. Superbly maintained, they unfailingly indicate
the whereabouts of a tourist attraction or village. Unfortunately, once off the
highway you plunge into cavernous single-track lanes, guarded by tall hedges.
And it is only when you come across a signpost to yet another village that you
realise you have already passed the one you were seeking … it was those
half-dozen houses you passed a while back with a pub, but no shop selling
bananas.
Bloody-mindedly I fought on,
politely pulling into narrow passing zones to allow oncoming traffic to
proceed, from time to time catching an elusive gleam of water through dense
hedgerows, becoming more and more convinced that I would stumble across a
mysterious Frenchman, aboard his yacht, 'The Seagull' in some watery creek.
Finally, I gave up and returned to
the main road.
Exhausted I drove back to St
Austell, eventually passing through a proper village, which boasted a sub-post
office selling comestibles but no bananas. Surely, there has to be a vegetable
shop on the periphery of St Austell? There wasn't or if there was, I didn't see
it.
In sombre mood I set off for the
golf course – banana-less …
…and had a most disgusting round.
I did eventually discover Tesco
who, as everyone knows, sells bananas, although that was not until I was
heading back to Somerset at the end of this ‘never to be forgotten’ day, the
responsibility for which I lay entirely on my lack of bananas. The store in
question lay on the far side of St. Austell heading towards Liskeard, which was
a fat lot of use.
Do you remember our alarmist cry
when supermarkets first appeared: 'You mark my words, small shops will die
out?'
They have!
At least the ones selling bananas
have.
The Machiavellian plot of Tesco,
Sainsbury and the like, is almost complete. The only thing left to be done is
for town planners to include a supermarket logo on all road signs: A392,
Liskeard, Plymouth and Tesco Superstore. Otherwise golfers will never be able
to find bananas in a strange town.
Join me every Sunday at 6pm live on :www.facebook.com/BarbaraSpencerBooks
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