I have unpacked one large sack off fluffy pink and leopard skin bunting (not pants. That’s right, NOT pants). Two metre and a half sprays of vibrant fabric jungle flowers. One box of home-coming books and finally, the soft remains of the little blue gazebo minus its skeleton.
Poor, poor gazebo. Its life was so short. One minute it was boxed up in Argos, all ready to begin a life of service to parties and craft fairs. It must have been so happy to be purchased. So eager. So full of life and potential and dreams.
You could practically feeeel the pride oozing from it as we set it up at the Jazz On The Meadow. Like an Indian boy on his way to be married, we adorned the little gazebo with marigold colours, bunting (not pants) and festival glitz.
Here he/it is putting his heart and soul into sheltering the books from the searing sunshine as well as housing Steve.
(Steve was my helper. He was my late father’s best friend. He once sported wild Jimi Hendrix hair and drove a beaten up bus across Pakistan and Afghanistan to India, whilst picking up random hitching hippies along the way. He is a treasure box, a talking volume, of stories from the past).
The little blue gazebo worked his hardest all day. Together we hosted a stream of customers and curious browsers. Here’s a pic of me and a long-lost friend, Sandy, from Sassy Productions.
Gradually the day crept past and the sunshine crept east and the cool dark evening crept in from the west. I undressed the little blue gazebo, bid it goodnight , packed my car and went home. Little did I know, I would never see him in tact again.
That night a storm blue up. Thirty eight mile per hour gusts pummelled the house and rain drops the size of ball-bearings hammered the bedroom window. I lay awake. I couldn’t get the gazebo out of my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wiry little pegs that were (supposedly) securing it safely to the ground.
Next morning I shot to the site first thing.
I ran through the gate.
Pulling my wind whipped hair from my eyes, I squinted up.
Amongst all for the scattered plastic glasses and rubbish, the little gazebo was on its back, as pathetic and lifeless as a blue bottle, lying legs up on a sunny window sill. (As I hurried over I saw that the trestle table was also lying on its back with its legs in the air as if to say “look, I got hurt too!!” But I didn’t care about the trestle table at that moment. Oh no.The only thing on my mind was little blue gazebo.)
I flew to the little blue gazebo and desperately tried to turn him over. At that moment the wind caught it and like a side-ways parachute it launched eastward. For one frozen moment I believed that I was going to end my life, impaled on a crazed gazebo leg. This is true! And deciding that this was really NOT how I wanted to go, I let go. Releasing the bent metal, I watched in horror as the entire tent bopped and bounced across the meadow like a 3×3 metre helium balloon.
It was over.
There was nothing else I could do.
Are you listening to this mum? I know you bought me that gazebo from Argos. And I know it was brand new. And I know, know, KNOW that you were planning on epic picnics and parties and that the little blue gazebo was going to be the hub of warmth and feasting.
But can you see now that I loved that gazebo. I tried to save it! I did.
Alas, following this tumble-weed flight across the meadow, the gazebo was officially done for. His legs were bent and buckled.
A kindly roady with dreadlocks and a bandana helped me to take off little blue gazebo’s awnings. As we carefully carried the twisted, arachnid skeleton down the meadow and lay it to rest on a pile of broken chairs dumped by the nearby cafe, the man suggested that next time I bring a flat pack shed.
So, that was what happened at the weekend. Sunday lacked Saturday’s warm vibrant vibes (for me). Without my little blue gazebo, it just wasn’t the same. Having said that, a lovely, generous lady called Eve let me use one of her tipis (I shall be doing a feature on her very soon but in the meantime, check out her site here).
Tipis (unlike gazebos) are designed to withstand all weather conditions.
The gusts that had now risen to 50 miles per hour would scoot up the side of the tipi and almost sucker it to the ground.
My plan is now to save up and buy one of these gorgeous constructions from Eve, but you can rest assured that even then, I will never forget the little blue gazebo purchased less than a week ago.
In the meantime, Mum, please could you go to B&Q and check out the sheds for me? I have this idea that I could paint it sky blue and have a little hatch at the front to sell the books from. I might even get two little lolly-pop bay trees and put them on either side of the door. I’m sure it won’t get blown away.
And if it does, it will end up somewhere lovely, like in Oz.
So what do you think?
Mum? Mother MeAcre?
Well. You let me know.