The Blind Truth

A good part of my life is spent on matters to do with #Fund Raising. It’s a tough old game so I’m sympathetic to anyone faced with the challenge and especially if it’s something I’d like to support.

I confess I’m not a fan of the fund raising event. I know that people like to feel they have got something for their donation but it often seems to me, that like the village fete, it’s a fate worse than death.

My inclination is to offer up the price of the ticket and not to bother going. I’m easily persuaded, a follower, and that’s how I found myself sitting in a community centre on an impossibly uncomfortable chair at a fund raising wine tasting. What I had not braced myself for was the organisers’ drive to encourage mingling. I ended up sitting at a table of people I’d never met before, exchanging pleasantries about people I didn’t know and never expected to know.

No one had said anything about the various other activities beyond swallowing wine. If they had told me there was a quiz I should have ensured I’d fallen into a pot hole in the car park. I was definitely in trouble.

Without the advantage of being able to read the quiz questions, which in itself was an irritation and a blessing in equal measure, I became a spectator:

“What is Iron Maiden?” quizzed our self appointed team captain.

“A pop group,” chirped his wife.

“I believe they are what’s known as a rock band,” said player number three.

“I think you’ll find that’s hard rock,” said the woman next to me as she ticked me off for eating the nibbles.

“It’s what’s known as hefty metal,” concluded the last of our team. That’s the hand we played and lost.

Would now be a good moment to ask my fellow players if they knew the answer to something that had been bothering me. “Who are the Beatles?”

Next came the caption competition. An impossibly small sheet of photos was handed out. No one even bothered to tell me what the photos were of.  I ploughed on hoovering up the chorizo. “Don’t eat the nibbles.” I was rebuked again. “they are there to clean your palate between tastings later on. They are an amuse-bouche.”

I doubted this. My mouth was not amused but inhaling sausage and lumps of cheese afforded me something to do to while away the evening.

Three local politicians had generously offered to be the panel in a round of “#Would I lie to you?” I should have thought the answer to this was obvious. Sadly, I called it wrong. My judgement was under serious threat now.

Wine is something I know a thing or two about. Three whites and three reds were rolled out, and to my horror, they had to be matched against the impossibly flowery descriptions on an extended crib sheet of descriptors. I plumped for descriptor number eight every time. I can’t remember exactly what description number eight had to say but the words “sharp” and “petrol” were definitely there. To my shame I called that wrong six times.

If the entire evening had been compressed into an hour it would have been excruciatingly funny. Four hours was just excruciating and as we made our way out into a pitch black car park, I could rejoice.  Finally, a level playing field. None of us could see a damned thing.

This was the moment to assert my superior path finding skills. It wasn’t that I have the nose of a bloodhound. The chorizo had seen to that. I was just desperate to get home and open a bottle of “fruity” wine.

Children’s literature is the best. When The Son was growing up, I loved reading to him. I do a pretty passable #Eeyore. Some have even commended me on my #Piglet. That’s another story involving prunes and Bombay mix, the ultimate delicacy.

One of the joys of reading to very small children is the large print that books for small children tend to come with. They allow plenty of scope for “ooing” and “ahhing”, pointing out tigers and fitting in the odd squeeze of the listener on your lap. What’s not to like?

The Son has fond memories of reading together. He remembers sitting in our kitchen being read the first chapter of #Black Beauty. He cried. I cried. Even #Mr Ferret, (not an unaccounted for character but the builder fixing the Kitchen window) cried.  The Son has been reading to The Grand since he could stay awake long enough and he’s been thinking about how I can read to him as well.

There’s no avoiding it.  Things aren’t what they used to be.  My large print copy of #The Just So Stories doesn’t look like much of a large print version these day. I think I’ve gone from large to giant font. No one has said so, but I know it and the Son knows it. He’s been thinking about how to find a way to make it possible for me to sit The Grand on my lap, read him a book and have a squeeze.

After a not inconsiderable amount of public library research, all the indicators point to #West Norwood Library having the best selection of early years reading.

As we walked toward the train, I pushed the pram and blew raspberries, The Grand kicked and whooped, The Son said, “You’re not offended are you?”

“About the giant size font?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Of course I’m not offended.” I should have said that I thought it showed considerable forethought on his part. If I am going to be able to read to The Grand, we are going to have to find new ways. The old ones won’t work.

At the desk The Son said, “I hear you have a good sized selection of large print baby books.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the Librarian said. “I can show you what we’ve got.”

On a solitary shelf sat a slender pile of large print baby books. The best stash in town totalled nine titles in all, and one of those was about a marital bust up.

The Son, The Grand and I sat on the floor and I read him a book about an unreasonably competitive dog who went head to head with his friends the ladybird, the mole and the duck. He lost, but in a moment of consolation his friends pointed out how much better he was at growing hair out of his ears than any of them were. I have quite a bit of sympathy for that dog. I’ve been in that position. The Grand lost interest and reverse crawled into a slightly bigger baby sitting behind him. We decided to cut our losses.

I’ve just done a Google search for large print baby books. The breaking news is that “F is for fart” is a small print book imposter. “The Hug” came out a close second.  “Sweet Peas and Dahlias” (a book full of twisty stories about love) is probably going to do it for me. I like the look of the dog on the front cover. He doesn’t have unusually hairy ears and may be amenable to making a friendship with a small boy. That might save The Grand from having to reverse out of my clutches in search of distractions.

“I guess that not being able to see makes dating a whole lot easier,” a one-time only dinner date suggested. “I mean. It wouldn’t matter to you what people look like. You could be with a really ugly ****** and you wouldn’t care.” 

I know beauty when I see it even if it’s not all about looks. I might just work my way into a conversation with an attractive man if one gets close enough to judge. True, it might be a very short-lived conversation because it all fades to nothing in the absence of a brain.  

This disconnect between what I think, and what others think I think, has offered up some comically tragic dates. What do my friends think of me? Why do they assure me that so and so is just perfect when they are obviously not?  

“My ex-wife is a beach,” said a heavily accented man from Botswana who sold discount utilities for a living and wasn’t afraid to ask for leads… “it was terrible. I had to get away so I went to the bitch every weekend.”  I was open mouthed. 

“I was at the bitch when I decided to give it all up and come to England.” He sighed in longing, presumably not for the beach. “Do you have any idea of how much it costs to park a car, long stay, in Botswana?” 

I did not. 

“Oh do come out for dinner,” insisted the man who had been sitting on the other side of the table during supper the previous night. I had neither spoken to him or had the faintest idea what he looked like. I took advice. 

“He’s nice,” said our hostess. “His Father was a vicar.” 

“A drink?” I countered. 

Halfway into the second glass of paint stripper he said. “Oh do come back to mine for a fish supper.” 

“That’s kind, but I need to be elsewhere by nine.” 

“Do you want to be my girlfriend or what?” he hissed. 

“Or what,” I said. 

My friend, Sceptic Tank rang to inform me about a date I would be going on that was not open for discussion. “He’s a really really young sixty-five” she said. “He’s really really nice looking and has a super cool apartment. He’s a really really nice man.”  

I had a sneaking suspicion that he may really really be playing in a different game. 

The really really nice man immediately called for a quick interrogation and a resume of no more than five hundred words that he would appreciate before Tuesday. I obliged.  

“Let’s have dinner.” He was very enthusiastic. 

“A drink would be better as I have to be somewhere else by nine.”  I said, planning ahead. 

We struggled for conversation. He asked me why my last relationship failed. Poor manners was what I wanted to say. I asked him about his likes and how he spent his time. He said that being retired could be lonely. I was sympathetic. We started to talk about antidotes to loneliness. He goes to a lot of talks and I was moved. Then he said, “Yesterday I went to a very good talk on IBS followed by a finger food lunch.” I don’t know why this was funny, but it was. He was moved, but not in the same way as me. 

On queue the phone rang.  

“Well how did it go?” 

“Not well,” I said. Sceptic Tank seemed taken aback. “That’s the last time I take instructions on dating from a woman who can see less than me.” 

“Yeah…He called me…He really really liked you, but, well, he thinks you are just too independent.” 

That really really takes the ******* biscuit. 

For more on this, follow the link and start reading.

Real Life Blind Dating – Vision Foundation

What could be nicer than to live it up with a couple of friends, eat canapés (not part of my five a day), drink an immodest glass of wine, then work it all off with a stroll home along the river?  

“I’ll be back in time for Newsnight,” I texted.

Instructing Wanda (that’s setting a google map route) should never be attempted at a stride. A cursory glance for oncoming obstacles is still a skill I think I have. I don’t. A collision with a lamp post focused my concentration.

It was all going so well until I hit the south side of Vauxhall Bridge. I knew exactly where I was because Wanda told me so, and then she didn’t. “That’s the MI5 building for you,” the Flatmate said. “It plays havoc with your google.” 

Turning right into the Wandsworth Road, I began to wonder. “In ten meters turn right” So I did. Tesco never used to be there. I was properly lost but took the opportunity to buy a pint of milk. “In fifty meters turn right.” I did as Wanda commanded.

I could have asked for help, but so certain was I that I could retrieve the situation I ignored the blindingly obvious google melt down and pressed on. “Turn right” google barked. I couldn’t work out where I was. Darkness meant my normal limited field of reference was now reduced to arms length.  I had no reference point to anchor my position. I walked into a wire fence. Wanda was having a hissy fit.

In retracing my steps, I was guided by how long I thought it had taken me since I last turned right. A man on a bicycle started circling. “Hey, Where are you going? Come back and talk to me.” I was not in the mood to risk it.

“Turn left,” my Wanda crackled, neglecting to mention anything about the possible pond or flooded fox hole that suddenly revealed itself. Then, a voice from nowhere said, “Hello “Madam. What are you doing here?”

Could those be guns I thought.

“Gentlemen,” I said, buying myself time to work if I was in trouble.  Armed Police I guessed. “Am I glad to see you.” I’m lost. Google has let me down and I can’t work it out because “I is blind”.” I waved my cane about a bit as proof, then fleetingly considered the wisdom of this move, remembering that cane users have been tasered for less.

“See over there,” the short one said.

“No,” I said.

“Look over there.”

“When I said I can’t see, I really meant it. I can’t see where I am going.”

“Over there,” he persisted.

“I expect I’ll work it out.” I sighed. “I’m unnerved. I’ve just had an exchange with a man on a bike.”

“Well. If you’re wandering about on your own at this time of night, I suppose you have to expect that kind of thing.”

“I’m off kilter,” I burbled.

“Well no harm done. I should get home if I were you.”

A fat lot of use the Police turned out to be.

Storm Brendon, council Christmas tree disposal policy and a long walk home don’t appear to have much in common. Put them all together and you can live through your own Spaghetti western.

It’s not that the good citizens of Clapham are having a hairy panic seeing Clint Eastwood emerge through the tumbleweed blowing down the High Street. The good, the bad and the ugly of South London have all run home and locked the doors as the wind gets up, the rain comes down and hundreds of Christmas trees get going. It’s just me and the trees blowing about in the dark.

You’d think that by the middle of January all those abandoned Christmas trees would have made it to wood chip. They’ve been hanging about waiting for kerb side collection for weeks now. Fed up with waiting they’ve broken free under cover of a dark and stormy night. They’re roaming about South London like tumbleweed. The challenge for me is that they are invisible in the dark. That’s why I’m taking a position on abandoned trees.

Position one is involuntary: I do not spy a tree and think how wonderful it would be to take a moment to climb up into the branches of that tree and rest, recumbent, pre-Raphaelite inspired. A large tree, that some poor person has had to drag home with them, is now blowing about in the street, waiting for the moment when it and I become connected. As introductions go, it is “prickly” and “in your face”. Our acquaintance is short lived and after a brisk exchange, the free roaming Christmas tree blows away down the road. It all happened so fast. I couldn’t give a description.

Position two is also involuntary. I’m not a tree hugger. They’re not my type. I’m not seeking out a prickly embrace, but a prickly embrace is what I get. A large, full bodied tree, gets me square on. I was looking out for it, but didn’t see it, and now I had my arms around it. Then the tree blew on and I was left fighting with thin air.

Position three is the very position I want to avoid. I am brought to my knees by a free roaming Christmas tree. It does not have the brawn of tree number two. Properly secured in a nylon net, it is the kind of tree you could probably carry home, under an arm, on the bus. What it lacks in bulk, it more than makes up for in agility. It knocks me off my feet. You could say that tree was a mugger of a tree. I put up a strong defence and after a few choice words pick myself up and slope off.

Normal defences are useless. The long cane is not designed for the navigation of tumbleweed Christmas trees. There is nothing for it but to keep going and take it slow, listening out for any front doors that might open and anyone taking a chance to jettison any late abandoned Christmas trees misiles coming my way. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t pretty, but I made it home.

Position Four is this: It’s fourteen days since the twelve days of Christmas. Trees are still bobbing about in the street. I’ve got the needle about it. I don’t mean to be scratchy but it’s a hazard too far for this “blinky”. I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’m not interested in being bowled over by a tree. Where’s Clint Eastwood when you need him?

It’s coming back to me now. He went into politics and became the Mayor of Carmel. He’s probably been busy, cleaning up Christmas trees. 

The Old Bag rang me up to say that she and her slobbering side kick were in festive mood and would I like a drink? I said I would and that she should come round to my house for a mince pie and a real fire. She left the slobbering side kick at home, which upset me. I left the cork in the bottle and gave her a cup of tea. She drank it anyway.

“My dear girl, I have read your last blog post. I have to take issue with you. I think a candle is a wonderful thing. If it smells of something floral even better.”

I explained that I was not ready to retract my views on the eye piercing pain of the candle, even those gifted or re-gifted with love.

“I’d be delighted if someone gave me a really nice candle.”

“Would you?” I wondered in all innocence.

“I really would,” She said.

I let the silence linger for a moment.

“I’ve got a drawer full of them,” I said.

“I know,” she sighed.

The slobbering side kick would have just got on with the begging at this point. “Would you like a candle?” I asked with a throw away flick of the wrist.

“That would be lovely, if you feel you could spare one.”

I could, and I did. I wonder who the lucky recipient was. Not anyone with cataracts I hope. I should not want the Old Bag to have a waxy looking stain on her generosity.

Having drawn a line under the ocular discomfort of candles, with what I will admit is an uncharacteristic outburst of rudeness, I have opened an unforeseen new theme for re-gifting.

It’s no secret that I am a lover of the Dachshund. Having lived half a life without one, I have been thinking about getting one of my very own. In fact, I am beginning to hanker. Is it, I wonder, compatible with increasing use of the cane? Opinion is divided.  Those that trust in my abilities are for it. Those that have baser concerns do not. “But how will you know if it’s done a poo? That’s so unfair on other people. It would be extremely selfish of you.”  “You will trip over it.” “You might crush it.” ” It’s better if you get a guide dog?”

The dachshund conundrum is ongoing and has opened up a gifting theme that has run through a large selection of cushion covers with dachshunds on them, dachshund  broaches, dachshunds to hang on the Christmas tree, dachshund shaped biscuit cutters, Dachshund mugs, and, this Christmas, multiples of the dachshund draft excluder. I suspect that all of this is born of well laid plans, to dampen my desire for the real thing. It has failed.

The logic is flawed:  No dachshund in its right might would immobilise itself in a draft, in a doorway, a place through which people pass, often distracted, with cups of tea in hand. It would not lie there waiting to be “tripped” over. The dachshund would be sitting on the sofa, having rearranged the cousins for its own comfort. Should it be met with my looming posterior, hound instincts would take over and I would be immediately rebuked and told to find another seat. The opportunity for “crushing” would be seen off.

Even the very best of faux dachshunds can’t offer the beauty of a really fine dachshund overbite and attitude. So much for the observational powers of those who claim their vision is unimpaired. It’s the real thing for me.

In more good news, concerned citizens will be free to pick up the poo I may not spot.

Forget the heralding of Christmas with the purchase of industrial quantities of Brussel Sprouts. Better to trumpet the festivities with the Jerusalem artichoke. It achieves the same result but for less.

Fighting my way through Christmas madness, I find myself shuffling against the tide of shoppers who are straining under the weight of last minute purchases. I’m on a mission to snaffle the last artichokes before anyone else gets there.

The crowds don’t exactly look as if they are bristling with seasonal joy and there is a lot of high pitched screaming and the odd tantrum going on.  A few people have thought to add their Yorkshire terriers into the mix, supported in the chaos by guess what? The extendable dog lead of course.

I am just beginning to wonder at the wisdom of artichokes when a brass band strikes up. They are playing “Joy to the World.” This is the final straw and people start pulling down their hats and covering their ears. Just when I was beginning to think that terriers and their invisible extendable leads were an ask to far, there is relief. The terriers start howling, providing a pretty good indicator of exactly where they are hiding behind the expanse of shopping bags.

This kind of busyness is impossible to make sense of to me. I start humming along with the band in an effort to offer myself a moment of uplift and relief from visual catastrophe. I never thought that a brass band could save the day, but me and the Yorkshire terriers are as one.

When it comes to Christmas shopping I’m for the safe option although I have just taken a chance and bought the flatmate an adult colouring book for Christmas. I wish others would take this approach. That’s the safe option not the chance.

Despite all early warnings, to the contrary, last year I still got a selection of candles. It has made no impact on anyone. I’ve had two more candles so far this year to my certain knowledge. I haven’t even put the presents under the tree yet. I’ve tried the nice way to say this so here comes the sting – again. A candle has all the charms of an ocular migraine to anyone with cataracts.  The next person who hands over a candle shaped gift will not be thanked. I shan’t even manage a smile. I’m going to offer up a flash of contempt and say, “How lovely, a present. I’ll just go and open that over the bin.”

Last year I got a book from someone I’ve known for fifty-five years. I like to think this was not a casual unkindness but a bit of karma coming back to my door. She was probably recycling unwanted presents and got desperate. I’ve done it myself, with candles.

The person who bought me a coffee machine, even though they know I don’t drink coffee, may want to consider their position as my relative or they may find themselves in receipt of a selection of delightfully scented candles, designed to induce a calming affect – when lit.

On the subject of magnification, I’ve had a major clear out this year. There is not a single magnifier left in the house, except the one that comes as an app.  Don’t attempt to fill the void.

The Grand has sprouted his first tooth this week and all he wants for Christmas is the other one. He’s going to start solids on Christmas day, with a sprout and a bit of porridge. Safe to say that the weather out there may be frightful, but in here it’s just delightful if a little on the windy side.

“Get a job with a pension” was the plea of Alan Pickering’s’ parents. He did. He became a pensions guru. Someone has to do it and there is no reason why a man without sight but with plenty of vision couldn’t do the job. He did so well at it he got a gong.  This is what he said about how he got there.https://www.pensionsage.com/pa/Guest-comment-Vision-without-sight.php

Not everyone gets the benefit of support as they make that transition from school to the world of work. #Shappi Kharsandi, tells the story about how, with looming poor grades at A ‘Level, her school thought she wasn’t university material, but she had such a bubbly and outgoing personality. They recommended she become a holiday rep. She wondered, if she had been at a half way decent fee paying school, how that conversation might have run: “We think that while you might not be university material you’ve got such a bubbly and outgoing personality, we recommend you become Foreign Secretary.”

There’s something in this. Expectation is everything. It can enable you to grow into the person you think might want to become. If people don’t have much of an expectation what is to become of you?

In my final year of school, I was summoned to my housemaster’s sitting room for a careers discussion. When I got there, he was sitting in an arm chair, smoking a cigar, glass of whisky on the table, reading #Playboy. “Sir,” I protested. “You’re reading a porn mag.”

“She reads Homes and Gardens,” he said in his own defense, giving a cursory nod in the direction of his wife who was, curled up on the sofa, absorbed in the world of interior designs.

A silence hung between us until he put his “reading” matter down. I waited. “Well, I don’t have any advice to offer.” Then he went on to offer his equivalent of “you might not be university material but you’ve got a bubbly personality.”

“Being a blind bat and as gobby as you are, we had just better hope that you can find yourself a very old rich husband to marry. With luck, he’ll die and leave you all his money, but not if you’re too gobby.”

The Careers Counsellor had a more considered approach.  He asked me what I had in mind. I explained that I was thinking of a career in the arts or the law. It was the seventies. A lot of episodes of #Crown Court had shaped my view of my potential to put a better argument and a better performance. If the law wouldn’t have me, maybe I could act and just pretend.

“How much do you weigh?’ he asked.

“No idea,” I answered.

“You’re quite a hefty girl and not a lot of sight I note, I’d recommend you consider basket weaving.”

As recommendations go, being bubbly and a potential holiday rep, or even Foreign Secretary, would be a considerable step up from being a basket case. I mean this in the nicest way imaginable to weavers, but this was not what I had in mind.

I wondered what was wrong with these people? What was it about them that meant they had no vision? Why could they not see the life of adventure that I could see for myself?

It was listening to #Shappi Khardandi that bought it all back: The #Playboy magazine, the smoking teacher drinking whisky in the afternoon, careers advice that was not careers advice at all. It was the seventies. Shappi was feeling rather smug about how it turned out. I know what she means.  I’m more likely to annoy than make people laugh as much. Oh heck, I’m feeling pretty smug about it too.

The drama of elections is not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s largely tedium and data entry. I’m sure about this. I’ve been out canvassing over two elections. I’m even in a WhatsApp group of canvassers. I can’t claim a high level of commitment. It’s all proving a bit tricky.

“We’re looking for people to lead.”

“I can do that,” I said.

“It’s tricky with you because you can’t see the computers. We need to take advice from the university about your access needs.”

“Why don’t you just ask me. These things are usually pretty simple.”

She didn’t say this but she might have meant to: “This nice young person who doesn’t know what he’s doing, will forget to call you in the morning. If you give him your number, he’ll lose it.”

So it came to pass that I was repeatedly phoned by the candidate’s team to ask if I would volunteer, and how I repeatedly said I’d like to. I wrote to the party leaders office to ask if there was anything I could do to help in respect a bit of a disability bump in the road. The leader promised to reply within three weeks. That was their final word on the matter.

I booked a bit of refresher canvassing training. I went. It was cancelled but a nice woman talked me through it. Then the canvassing was cancelled. Then I volunteered to do the canvassing that replaced the cancelled canvassing. That turned out not to exist.

On a chilly Friday afternoon, I got a lift to the rendez vous. “This is Anna,” said team leader. We all shook hands. “Sadly, Anna can’t see very much. She’s partially sighted.” I wish I was. “Unfortunately she’s always had this problem but she’s making the best of it and she’s volunteered. Anna and I have canvassed together before and I did the data entry and she did the talking. Isn’t that right Anna?”

It’s not how I remember it but I can go with that.

“Perhaps it would be helpful if I were to speak for myself.” I couldn’t help myself.

“The app doesn’t work with enlarged text. I can’t make it work with voice over. It might be the app that’s the problem. No one knows how to make it accessible.  If someone can do my data entry shall we just carry on?”

I’m relieved to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. Top “go away” line of the afternoon goes to the teenager who when asked if his parents were in replied,

“They’re busy. They’re on the toilet.”

As the light began to fade I’m finding my stride. “Are you Mr Voter registered to this address?”

My companion is tugging at my sleeve. I plough on. We have a chat about the merits of voting for my Candidate. Mr Voter says. “I probably will vote for them. I’m not trying to get rid of you but….” I’m braced to take the insult on the chin. “I need a shower.”

“Completely understand says my more experienced companion,” and legs it. I follow at a sedate pace. It’s twilight and there might be traps in them there steps.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” I ask.

“He was not exactly in a state of decency. He was in his dressing gown. Nothing left to the imagination.”

I never noticed which must have been a little disconcerting for Mr Voter.

“Politics is never best discussed in a state of undress on a cold day”, my fellow canvasser observed,

Yesterday, I was out with Aussie Dave. We got shouted at. “never mind,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. “I can see the pub from here.”

Anyone who’s been lucky enough to receive the Freedom of the City of London is, to a Freeman or Free Sister, asked if that means they are going to drive their sheep over London Bridge. This ancient medieval right was long abandoned but has made a cunning reappearance in recent years.

Alan Titchmarsh has done it. It’s annoying because he pops up doing just about everything that I might have fancied doing, (except the gardening – that’s me not him). Sheep driving is a charitable event these days and that’s how Alan got the gig. No better photo opportunity than Alan in a three piece herding thirty sheep over the bridge.

The Clerk to the Court of the City of London warned me that Freeman and Free Sisters who whose sheep wander down Borough High Street without prior arrangement, may find themselves subject to the long arm of the law. I’m not a Free Radical, and since I know for certain that they don’t serve loose leaf Earl Grey tea in any Metropolitan Police custody suite, I’m reluctant to take the risk and surrender my freedom to drink the tea of my choice.

However strong my desire to become a sheep herder, I’ll have to wait for a charitable opportunity. Since my cause is #Vision Foundation, I doubt that anyone will be fighting for me to lead the charge let alone bring up the rear of a flock of sheep. There is not a lot of call for sheep herders who may not be able to tell an ewe from a mini metro, let alone a ram. I fear I have missed the little Bo Peep boat.

Only my imagination can propel me over that bridge. In it, I’m looking more like Alison Steadman’s portrayal of Mrs. Bennet than Tess of the D’Urbervilles, which would have been my preference. Come to think of it, had Tess survived the tragedies of her love life, she might have ended up looking like Mrs. Bennet.

I shouldn’t want to be seen as a bleater, and setting aside the limitations of my imagination for a moment, a good cause could yet prove the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I might have to take it, not in crinoline or cheesecloth, which does rather dash the swirl of romanticism I have about all those sheep. I’d have to opt for #gortex, a sensible pair of shoes and a tweed hat. I may be entering Brenda Blethyn territory now.

Should anything go wrong, should one of those sheep push another of those sheep off the bridge and into the murky depths of the Thames, I will be well placed to get to the bottom of it. Not the river itself. I’m not planning on jumping in after the stricken mutton. No. like Brenda’s portrayal of DCI Vera Cleves, I will not be making an actual leap, but a leap of faith, in order to solve the riddle of the lost sheep.

Sheep herding may not have quite the level of romanticism others look for in a day out, but I might start a bucket list. Considering the amount of nerves that any sheep imported for a trot over London bridge may feel, I’d need a bucket. I’ll add a shovel while I’m at it. That will be something for my charitable support team to do as they clear the path ahead of me, less sheep nerves get the better of me and I’m involved in a fatal accident.