Didcot (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Didcot) is one of those names that’s funny in itself, like Bognor, Cleethorpes, Chipping Sodbury and of course Cockfosters. A Didcot (OH has just sneezed on me. When I thanked him for that he said, ‘but we’re always exchanging mucus.’) Anyway, a Didcot is a small circle of paper which springs out of a hole-puncher such as guards on trains used to have when they clipped your ticket. According to where they punched it you could have a nice neat hole near the edge or else a semicircular bite taken raggedly from the edge as if a tiny and very hungry dinosaur had been at it (why a dinosaur? Don’t ask me, I just write the stuff…)
But Didcot has a particular resonance for OH and me, because of a weekend away. I don’t remember where we went but we were rowing (rowing in a boat, not having an argument). At least, I was rowing and OH was trailing one hand languidly in the water, since I learned to row as a child and OH is absolutely hopeless: left in charge of the oars he would go round in circles before letting in water and slowly sinking. Anyway, I quite enjoy rowing so there we were and it was lovely and languid and peaceful until… (cue sinister music) The Guides.
If you want to read the full grizzly story, it’s here:
I’m off now to paint the Forth Bridge… at least, that’s what it feels like