The Bumps

The three old men meet once a year for a very specific purpose.

John brings the rope,  Geoff carries the poles and Ian operates the machine.

It's a worrying business,  but they all take a light-hearted view;  almost as though they didn't take their work seriously.   Yet,  deep down,  they know it's important.   Without old men like these three the world might grind to a halt.

The Bumps started yesterday,  and will reach a climax on Saturday.   Proud parents from all over the world will converge on the village.   Brash Northern business men in vulgar offroaders;  arrogant Home Counties marketing men in beamers;  effusive Antipodeans in hired cars;  elaborately polite American airmen in impossibly large sedans;  they'll all bring their wives,  of course,  and the lesser siblings of the competitors.

The competition is fierce,  as befits the relations of the best brains in the country at one of the elite Universities,  but unless you do exactly as Margaret,  or Sara,  or Hilary tells you,  you won't get a parking space.   Competition on the river is fierce too (probably).   Pride amongst the parents is fierce:  never mind whether Jeremy expects to get a First:  did he win his heat?   This is the Henley of the East of England,  and frocks and suits and hats rival those near the Thames.   Corporate champagne flows at Osier Holt;  college bubbly is poured at Ditton Meadows;  Pimms is available at the banking marquee;  and those without formal invitations bring hamper and rugs,  and look for somewhere to sit and watch.   Caroline and Ray will open The Gate and let a few nice people in to watch from their field.

The village is old,  and narrow,  and crowded.   Plough Hill and Green End (the names say it all),  down to the river,  are no more than paved lanes lined with cottages and honeysuckle and roses.   There are no passing places and there is no turning circle at the end.   David is building a new house,  with its attendant lorries and machinery,  on the corner.

In an effort to ease the chaos (it can't be eliminated) the Recreation Ground is opened for parking,  for a donation of £5 per car.   Payment is made at the gate,  with more grace the smaller the car (except the American airmen,  of course,  who won't accept change for £20 notes,  despite having scraped their bottoms over the path at the entrance).   The gate is manned (?) by a coordinated rota of charming ladies and gentlemen who will morph into dragons at the slightest recalcitrance.   They'll work their socks off to make the visitors happy,  provided they do as they're told.

By Sunday it's all over.   The parents are happy (not knowing the rules,  and having seen only 100m of the river,  they have no idea whether their darlings won or lost,  but they had a lovely day out).   One college is ecstatic and jubilant (to the extent of hanging upside down from the bypass bridge to paint their name on the concrete):  the others are morose and making excuses.   The village is £1500 better off,  and the villagers are exhausted.

The three old men are happy,  too.

They worked from 10 until 1130 on Thursday morning,  and they'll do it all again next year,  deo volente.

They painted the white parking lines on the recreation ground.