When we first started coming to Triangland it was like a blank canvas. Always so quiet with just our own hang ups to mishape the sense of wonder. I am typing this on an android phone and this seems to shape my perception in the same way that meeting other citizens of Trinagland does. You would not believe how much it feel like Jonathan Swift is writing each day as it comes. This Swiftian move from innocent anticipation to detached cynicism is enhanced by the necessity of concentrating on each separate letter as I type rather the flow of the pen. There was trouble last night. The kind where you have to forgoe the decompression chamber and launch yourself back into the real world. I should say before I go on that Rob and Ro who own our triangle have lived here all their lives and our contact with them has never done anything other than guide us gently into another picture book realm. Ro's shed which is held up with ivy was a recent winner of shed of the year. Perhaps last night was just another kind of picture book. More Barrie than Blyton. It seems all the young men aged between 8 and 11 were engaged in a water battle over the length and breadth of Triangland. Our sons took on the roll of rally crying arms dealers with gusto. By the end, however, someone had filled a gun from the hot tap - boys are want to experiment - and kicks and punches were exchanged. More Golding than Barrie. Now here is where my mind is dragged from its metaphorical hammock onboard hms sleepy head. I was outside the public lounge where we were playing a local card based variant of bingo when i saw a more senior lady appearing to tell a younger lady how to bring up her children to be responsible and considerate of others. I am one hundred percent certain that she was quoting directly from the constitution of Triangland. This to the best of my knowledge was drawn up in march when the owner occupiers returned. The sound of anyone telling anyone how to bring up their kids always seems to bypass my wait a moment before becoming involved area of the brain. This was revolution. I said my piece and returned dazed to the public lounge. Steve the bar ( I mean lounge) owner apologised to me for the behaviour of the owner occupier who needed to remember this was a holiday park. Not a retirement home. I never wanted to consider Triangland as a something or other - just a place we go to and let time drift us along merrily down the stream. I sign off as two unknown Barrie-esque boys are outside the bedroom door on the deck with large water canons. My own boys have been banned from such activities today.
NB Further muddy footprints in the pure white icing of my cake of eatingit were made by Rob having installed free Sat - does he really want a Chanel called Filth available to his tenants? Before we got Canal if the wind was blowing in the right direction. Secondly mothers of other marauding water gun boys making jokes about feeling dirty and needing to get wet which I only get the next day. Thirdly I am wearing a jumper today.
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