Previous – Book1 Page119 – Next
Again!
Sending her prized cabbages skyward like cannon fire. That made her really angry, because that’s a simile not a metaphor!
Another barrel would come to a heroic, but undignified halt in a puddle, to the jeers of those who’d bet on it. Once, there was a particularly ambitious barrel which had made it all the way into the harbour and floated off towards Mannin, where it was later reported to have startled a lighthouse keeper.
The winning cooper received a cold chip butty, a pint of Freckleton Turnip Ale and the dubious honour of being declared “Master of the Roll,” a title that carried no practical benefit beyond the right to boast about it for the next six days.
Afterwards, the village would repair to The Woozy Pigeon, where the talk of the evening would be barrel trajectories, the physics of slope, Turnip Ale versus Pumpkin Brew, and whether Mr Isosceles had been cheering too loudly for barrel number three.
And thus the good people of the sleepy village of Blackpool found their weekly thrill. Brief, noisy, slightly dangerous, and infinitely more preferable to another Saturday of listening to the wind complain across the dunes.
Previous – Book1 Page119 – Next