THE Daughter told me this weekend that I am not the undisputed queen of the roller disco: no, I’m an embarrassment worse than Miranda.
Her accusation seemed unfair until I found myself later so pushed for time that I painted my nails in the car on the way to a wedding and arrived as if I’d been grape-crushing at a Rioja vineyard en route.
But I digress. I wasn’t the only parent at the party to wheel up amongst the children and have a bash, and surely there was some vestigial shadow of the roller skating prowess of my teenage heyday when I could spin, jump and stop without endangering walls.
And I undoubtedly provided an exciting spectacle for the on-lookers with ad hoc break dance routines entirely unexpected by both audience and performer though I suspect my face was not the white-toothed smile of the Los Angeles beach babe but a terrifying rictus of fear, one slip away from a ride in an ambulance.
We enjoyed similar fast, furious fun and the promise of near-death at Abingdon’s Michaelmas fair which, with three children, is a long way from fair-trade.
There’s something unspeakably exciting about escaping the humdrum of a school night to caper beneath the bright lights of candyfloss and doughnuts and take a turn on the carousel.
However, as we waltzed along in dodgems and dodged past the waltzer, I haemorrhaghed enough cash to buy the majority share in Alton Towers.
Who needs the hall of mirrors or the ghost train when, after 20 minutes, one look in the purse contorts the face far beyond any weird reflections or dangling ghouls?
I once lived along Ock Street and two days after I moved in, so did the fair, a whole housewarming party of gatecrashers thudding outside the bedroom window until the small hours.
And there I discovered the other wonderful thing about the fair: how it packs up and vanishes overnight, leaving peace and other traditional pleasures for us to enjoy – such as blackberry picking in rural hedgerows.
And with my purple painted fingers, I’m ripe for another celebration. Pass the roller skates.
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