And on we go, into the long dark teatime of the soul, or “A Day In Lincolnshire” to give it the correct title.
The great Lincolnshire GBG19 tick begins in Sleaford, or all places.
Clearly you all know where Sleaford is, you’re educated people. Unlike the audience at my gig in Cambridge last night who didn’t even know where Guildford was.
The highlight of any trip to the home of the Mods is, of course, the famous “Seven men in orange suits standing around doing nothing” art piece.
Eagle-eyed readers will notice that the blue skies have gone, at least temporarily, which is my excuse for some dull pictures. The view from the top of the National Centre for Craft and Design is revelatory, in Sleaford terms.
My notes, made on the move while bumping into the retired gentlefolk crowding the lanes en-route to staring in tearooms and antique shops, merely say;
“A 1-1 draw with Driffield”
And you know exactly what to expect as you walk up the drive.
Inside a classic plain Fenland pub, three Old Boys say “‘ello“. I say “Hello” too, and get asked about the weather. I want to ask about the modifications to their mobility scooter, but check myself.
It’s only 11.15am, so I go for a half of the Horncastle (average) rather than the keg Sam Smiths.
“Malcolm and Bill should be ‘ere by now”
“‘ere they are”
You know how it goes.
Mostly coffees (instant), with two sugars.
By 11.30 it was quite bustling, a toddler with a pushalong the centre of attention.
I’d hoped to buy the most recent Sleaford Mods CD in Sleaford, but I sensed they probably weren’t fans and wouldn’t be able to advise me. In fact the only record shop in town is the Red Cross shop.
Even though I don’t need to, I visit the Gents.
As I leave, the Landlady breaks off from coffee orders to shout “Thank you“, and means it.
A Proper Pub.