How dare a beardy know-all question my moral compass
As regular readers know, I am a man fond of an occasional stroll on the downs. I don’t do this out of any great love for the whale-backed hills, it’s more an opportunity to get away from my wife and children for a day – though I would never say this in public as it might make me appear heartless and uncaring.
I headed to the downs last Saturday. It was a beautiful day and I felt the satisfaction and carefree spirit of a man who knows he’s about to wear a fleece in public and not feel any shame.
Normally these walking days pass without incident but this one, I’m ashamed to say, involved me getting into a bit of a spat. Well, I say spat, more a slight exchange of words, though spat sounds more exciting.
I was with my friend, a friend I go walking with not because we have a good relationship – if truth be told I’ve never been keen on him; he and his wife have a collection of tea towels depicting English seaside resorts, need I say more? – but because he can read a map, whereas I have no idea what all the squiggly lines mean.
While my mate is an excellent navigator, he is incredibly annoying, for instead of simply telling me which is the right way to go, he feels the need to share every detail.
So, for example, as we are approaching a fork I will say ‘is it left or right?’ All I require is a simple one-word answer but instead he’ll say the dreaded words, ‘would you like to see where we are on the map?’ My instinct is to say ‘no, I couldn’t care less’, but of course I have to reply, with fixed smile and heavy heart, ‘okay then’.
He will then spend the next six minutes pointing at lines on the map so faint it would take a NASA telescope to properly see them.
‘So, you can clearly see that we’re just here, between Open Winkins and East Dean. If we were to go right, do you see what would happen? We’d be in trouble wouldn’t we? So we turn left here...’
By this point my eyes have glazed over and I have to fight hard to resist screaming ‘have mercy, no more’.
Anyway, we were having a very pleasant walk and I was in particularly high spirits for I was wearing new boots with an extra durable Goretex inner lining.
Some people get excited by a holiday abroad, some a meal in a fancy hotel – me, I get my kicks from extra durable lining.
Mrs Canavan is a lucky woman.
On stumbling across a nice vantage point, we sat to eat our lunch when a group of six older men lumbered into view and stopped next to us.
They were wearing matching jackets with the same logo, so were either members of a rambling club or had been incredibly unfortunate when selecting their outfits that morning.
They all had beards and were having an animated conversation about whether it was best to take the A27 or A259 back to Emsworth.
After a couple of minutes my friend and I stood up and began to walk off when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘you are taking that with you, aren’t you?’
I turned to see him pointing at a crisp packet that must have fallen out of my rucksack as I stood up.
‘Oh sorry about that,’ I said, ‘yes, of course I am.’
In a very pompous tone, he then remarked, ‘good because I would’ve reported you for that.’
I examined him closely to see if this was a joke. It wasn’t.
‘Well clearly I didn’t deliberately leave it there, it must have fallen out of my rucksack,’ I said, slightly narked.
‘That’s what they all say’, he remarked.
Now I must admit I slightly lost my rag at this point and said sternly, ‘listen, it was obviously not deliberate and what’s more I really don’t care for your obnoxious patronising tone’.
Everyone fell silent and then, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed to have caused a scene in a beautiful part of the world, I stuffed the crisp packet in my rucksack in quite dramatic fashion and flounced off without looking back.
I get my kicks from extra durable lining. Mrs Canavan is a lucky woman