The Battle of the Bands

This was a weekend without plans, so liable to tip over into cantankerous mass cabin fever and shouty unpleasantness at any moment. My husband and I both know this so yesterday we mounted an expedition to the gala day of a nearby village. The children looked a bit doubtful when we told them but I was ready for them before the looks became vocalised. "There will be old lady teas," I coaxed, "and probably ice cream (I would do one or the other not both once we got there) and loads of junk to spend your pocket money on." Gratifyingly, that worked instantly. My seven year-old daughter scurried off to get her purse while my ten year-old son went to say long goodbyes to his ferret and the dog. My son didn't get his wallet as he knows there is no need when I am there. That is a genetic money saving trait he inherited directly from me. I never carry cash when I am with my husband.

The grown-up's motivation for going to the gala day, aside from scones, Mr Whippy and shopping was to see a man/boy who sometimes works for my husband playing with his band, Wyldflower. They were setting up when we got to the park where the gala was being held. The stage was in the ring and the choice for them as they lugged drums and amps onto the lorry back was a tough one. Play facing a wall, backs to most of the gala or face the right way but have the limp rooftops of a tent directly in front of them and between them and the audience.

We shambled over to the wheelbarrow race - a timed there and back with barrower and barrowee swapping at the far end. There was a hundred pound cash prize on offer and I think we saw the victors; teenage boys old enough to be strong and fast but young enough not to be too out of it to perform. They powered home in 18 seconds. Someone I know was manning the soft toy tombola and beckoned my children over. Despite a recent cull of soft toys in our house we still have enough to run our own tombola every weekend for the whole summer. I smiled sweetly at the woman on the stall and my children and said we wouldn't be taking part. I explained that we are about to move temporarily out of our house while some work is done to it and I am trying not to re-clutter. Remarkably my children didn't protest. Could they have grown out of soft toys? Did they not fancy the matted, crusted cast-outs from other people's beds? Could they have been trying to be helpful? Any of these scenarios would be pleasing to me and I went on to the next stall happy.

It was another variation on the tombola theme, being run, like many of the stalls by hands-on community-minded dads in bigger versions of the clothes their sons wear to nursery. Extremely good eggs all of them. So unsexy. Fortunately my daughter failed to win a bottle of whiskey. The plate smashing was smashing and we invested several pounds. Most of the plates we were smashing were nicer than the ones we eat off which gave me an idea for what I could do with the ones at home instead of laboriously packaging them all up and putting them into storage only to unpack them all again and sully the shelves of our swanky new kitchen with them.

As we wandered on to the Dennis the Menace stocks a mobility scooter trundled towards us rather haltingly. I wondered why it seemed so hesitant, stopping every few metres then starting again. One of my husband's relations got one for her 70th birthday and gave everyone shots on it at her birthday party so I know them to be robust vehicles and very easy to drive. There is no brake, which sounds alarming but isn't because you accelerate and deccelerate using the same small thumb-controlled lever. Press to go, press less to slow down, stop pressing to stop. It seemed unlikely that it was being broken in but maybe its battery was low. As it drew nearer I realised what the problem was. Its hugely overweight probably emphysemic jockey was taking her hand off the go lever every time she took a drag on her cigarette.

At the other end of the attractiveness scale the lead singer of the band, easily the foxiest person there in her black dress, stilettos and pink wig was testing testing. The children and I sprinted to the ringside. Drums, guitars, an intro worthy of The Killers and Wyldflower were off. They strutted, they strummed they danced, they smiled. A listless afternoon about to be transformed. I wanted to dance. I didn't want to embarass my children. I didn't want to be the only person dancing. I really didn't want to be the only person paying any attention to them but I was. One of the unsexy Dads walked past and I smiled and angled my head towards the band. "Great aren't they?" He made a face. "Bit shrill. Bit loud." The second song ended and the children and I cheered and whooped embarassing ourselves and the band. Everyone else was pretending they hadn't noticed them or complaining about the volume.

I hope the indifferent Gala day audience are the worst audience Wyldflower have ever had. I am from Edinburgh, the festival city and from good audience stock which makes me an excellent audience member and I was uncomfortable in such an apathetic crowd. The band gave up after five songs but they did well to keep going that long. I hope they get to play T in the Park next year.

But it turned out they weren't the only band there. As we were about to leave my daughter reminded me that we hadn't been into the tea room in the hall yet. I said we weren't going to sit down but if there was a stall selling baking we would buy something and eat it when we got home. There was no cake stall in the hall. There was a stall selling knitted owls and egg-cosies and holey baby clothes. It didn't appear to be doing a roaring trade, but the woman behind the table was knitting more anyway just in case there was a rush on knitted goods later. The middle of the hall was packed with tables which were packed with people, four to each, all giving it up in their non-animated octogenarian way to the band on the stage - ranks of seated ancients with fiddles and accordians playing the kind of thing you see on Scottish television on New Year's Eve but with less gusto. Some of the audience had even abandoned their pancakes and Tetley, so entranced were they. I'm certain not one of the performers on that stage knew they had won the gala day battle of the bands, but they had.

OK, we'll come

A text from my Mum this morning. Not in triplicate, as they sometimes appear when she is trying to do something else as well as texting, but a single purposeful message. "Any chance you could all come for supper on WEd? I know its a school night, etc. No pressure." Well, just the teensiest bit of pressure in that she also texts that my brother and sister in law have already accepted the invitation. Wednesday? WEDNESDAY? My children are now back at school and we live an hour away. An hour and a half on a Wednesday evening. I text back, "Is it a special occasion?" I suggest my wicked Aunt (who is also going)'s 80th. She is not much over 70 and Joan Collins well-preserved. I am a wicked niece. My Mum texts straight back. She obviously isn't multi-tasking this morning. "Dad's 74th birthday".

I knew that. My papa's birthday is the 3rd of September, same as the papa in The Temptations song. Luckily mine isn't and never has been a rolling stone. I have been thinking about wondering out loud what we are doing for Dad's birthday, but what with my son's birthday, which for some reason required four cakes - one for the family, one for his school friends, one for the grown-ups' dinner party and one for his friend who is allergic to eggs - and my son's birthday party and the new term, I didn't get round to it. I take it on the chin in my text back to her. "Silly me," I text back. "What time are you eating?" If its 8 we're not going. Instantaneous beep: "7.30" I do the calculations in my head and realise my 7 year-old daughter who needs 12 hours sleep won't be in bed till 11. There must be an formula for an equation in which you put the age of the child over the amount of sleep normally required, multiply by the amount anticipated and work out how many grumpy hours you will have to endure the following day. My 10 year-old son isn't a sleeper so he'll be fine but its a hundred mile round trip for supper on a Wednesday, my whole family subjected to midweek homework, and the roadworks, fuel costs, other lame excuses... What am I THINKING? I have no idea how many more birthdays my Dad will have, I hope masses although I don't want to put a figure on it, but anyone with a 74 year-old parent will know the ball park I'm in with this. Of course we'll go, no question. I text back, "Lking fwd 2 it xx". Usually I text in proper English, fully punctuated but sometimes I do teenage texty lingo, just to show myself that I can.