The Mysterious Mix (Summer Fete)
Created | Updated Aug 11, 2017
Ruffles and I are preparing for our day at the Midsummer Fete.
The fete is a much loved annual event in our town. Our first stop will be the stall selling treats for pets. This is because Ruffles is a Jack Russell.
Coincidentally, I am currently writing a story about a fete.
The plot centres around a jazz quartet who arrive from out of nowhere, and play an exceptionally brilliant show in the cider tent.
'We're on an interdimensional tour' they inform the appreciative crowd.
'Which dimension are you playing in next?' someone asks.
In order to answer this question convincingly, I must explore other dimensions.
I feel sure that Tim White can help me. He'll be be offering psychic readings at The Crystal Stall, according to a notice in the coffeeshop.
The Crystal Stall sells a tempting range of mystical gifts.
Last year, Ruffles started growling at a feathered dreamcatcher that was swaying in the breeze. 'Feathers make him nervous' I explained to the lady at the counter, as we left.
The sun is breaking through dark clouds as we reach the carpark.
Ruffles wanders over to the grassy verge.
There's a neatly dressed middle aged gentleman in front of me at the ticket machine. Two white feathers are tucked into his panama sunhat.
I hope Ruffles doesn't see him. He might think he's a bird spirit.
He turns around, looking concerned, and I worry that he's read my thoughts. It turns out that the machine is rejecting his fifty pences.
Are you going to the fete? he asks while I check my purse for pound coins.
'Yes!' I say. 'My dog Ruffles and I are researching other dimensions, for literary purposes. Plus we hope to buy a bag of bone shaped biscuits and a crystal unicorn.
'Ah dear lady', he replies, 'what a mysterious mix is this miracle we call life.'
Having successfully bought his ticket, he tells me that he and his wife are helping out at the homemade jam stall. We'll save you a jar!' he says cheerily as he leaves.
In some other story he would have been Tim White.
He might have handed me a white feather to wish me well on my journey, and Ruffles would have growled all the way from here to the end of time.
A silver heart shaped balloon floats over the carpark.
Ruffles is flirting with a Miniature Poodle. I call him over.
'Well little fellow,' I say, ' its time for us to stir the mysterious mix.
Is that otherworldy jazz I hear in the distance? We must check out the cider tent.'
The fete beckons!
