Morris

It was good to get away from Fort Madeley for the morning. The sound of Judy wading through dead moths is enough to turn any man’s stomach and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve set the alarm off by opening the wrong window or stepped through a high security door.

Although it’s come a little later than normal this year, the local Morris Dance is a chance for folk in the village to get together and worship the Old Gods, as we like to call them around these parts. Much cider is drank and a few virgins despoiled in the municipal allotments. It’s all traditional rural fare and I’m always happy to be there with my camera and to led my friends some support.

This year was of particular merit because it was a chance to see Stephen and Bill enjoying themselves. Stephen is a long time Morris Dancer but Bill’s new to the handkerchief and knee bells. Although they’re both long-time druids, as are many of us who live in this part of North London, this was the first time they had danced together and I thought they did so with particular alacrity. Watching the pair of them prancing down the high street, smacking their poles together was enough to made Judy weep. I took a few photos, some more candid than the rest, and for the sake of Bertas who I know enjoys these things, I’m happy to post one of them here.

This afternoon I’m heading down into my bunker to do some serious work. If any of you are thinking of calling by at the house, can I ask you to use the new intercom. Don’t try the drive until we’ve given you the all clear that the laser net is down.