Suffolk Shrimper In Dorset
Director⭐⭐
I wake early. The early morning mist of a Summer’s day is readily burnt by the glowing yellow sun rising over south Suffolk’s gently rolling fields. Next doors much despised cockerel, 300 yards away and out of rifle range, announces the event with gusto.
I amble downstairs and let out Shrimper (dog) to off-load a nights pent up pee. Spotting Freddy (lean cat) taking an interest in a cornered mouse, he forgets the need for a whiz and speeds off to spoil the catch that would otherwise ensue. Used to the family mutt’s over-blown ego Fred stares him out, and in the confusion a grateful rodent bustles away to live another day. Bramble (fat cat) watches with minimal interest, knowing that the letting out of the dog must signal that another bowl full of prawn and lamb biscuits is not far away.
I leave the scene and put on the kettle. Something stronger will be downed later but a reflective coffee is required now. Around 100 days have passed since the love-in at St Mary’s, and my 36th season of hope is starting today. It requires quiet contemplation, I have no idea of what to expect and I reckon Tilly is thinking the same. Ginger replacing Gypo is not something to set the pulse racing, and there seems a fair chance that the main entertainment could be coming from the agony of watching a defence getting regularly battered. But who knows, Painter may become the man, and the Gooner prodigy might prove his pedigree. Absolutely no idea this time.
My musings are disturbed. No. 2 son unusually rises from his pit first, perhaps troubled from fitful sleep wondering what his old man has dealt him with. It’s his first year with a season ticket – a brief apprenticeship has already been served but now it’s real commitment and the reality has perhaps started to bite. He asks what time is kick off but he knows the answer. I put it down to nerves in the build up to arriving, in a few hours, at his own plastic bucket behind, if he is unlucky, a small annoying junior blue who can’t sit still for a minute without blowing a plastic whistle or scouring the stands for a stray balloon. We both hope the kid’s dad has found another distraction for him this year.
No. 1 son rises with more anticipation, strains of ‘Blue Army’ are heard as he thoughtlessly wakes up the rest of the household. No. 3 son, six years his junior, showing promising signs as a future fan but not appreciative of the early chant, tells him to naff off and a row ensues. Mrs Suffolk Shrimper wakes to referee the squabble with two red cards and I sneak off to the study to see who else is up in SZ Land.
It will all soon be here. Two hours a week of complete and total switch off from whatever else life throws at us, and in between the build up and match post mortem. Thank god.
I see Bramble’s uncontented stare aimed at me out through the window. It’s time to find the prawn and lamb biscuits.
I amble downstairs and let out Shrimper (dog) to off-load a nights pent up pee. Spotting Freddy (lean cat) taking an interest in a cornered mouse, he forgets the need for a whiz and speeds off to spoil the catch that would otherwise ensue. Used to the family mutt’s over-blown ego Fred stares him out, and in the confusion a grateful rodent bustles away to live another day. Bramble (fat cat) watches with minimal interest, knowing that the letting out of the dog must signal that another bowl full of prawn and lamb biscuits is not far away.
I leave the scene and put on the kettle. Something stronger will be downed later but a reflective coffee is required now. Around 100 days have passed since the love-in at St Mary’s, and my 36th season of hope is starting today. It requires quiet contemplation, I have no idea of what to expect and I reckon Tilly is thinking the same. Ginger replacing Gypo is not something to set the pulse racing, and there seems a fair chance that the main entertainment could be coming from the agony of watching a defence getting regularly battered. But who knows, Painter may become the man, and the Gooner prodigy might prove his pedigree. Absolutely no idea this time.
My musings are disturbed. No. 2 son unusually rises from his pit first, perhaps troubled from fitful sleep wondering what his old man has dealt him with. It’s his first year with a season ticket – a brief apprenticeship has already been served but now it’s real commitment and the reality has perhaps started to bite. He asks what time is kick off but he knows the answer. I put it down to nerves in the build up to arriving, in a few hours, at his own plastic bucket behind, if he is unlucky, a small annoying junior blue who can’t sit still for a minute without blowing a plastic whistle or scouring the stands for a stray balloon. We both hope the kid’s dad has found another distraction for him this year.
No. 1 son rises with more anticipation, strains of ‘Blue Army’ are heard as he thoughtlessly wakes up the rest of the household. No. 3 son, six years his junior, showing promising signs as a future fan but not appreciative of the early chant, tells him to naff off and a row ensues. Mrs Suffolk Shrimper wakes to referee the squabble with two red cards and I sneak off to the study to see who else is up in SZ Land.
It will all soon be here. Two hours a week of complete and total switch off from whatever else life throws at us, and in between the build up and match post mortem. Thank god.
I see Bramble’s uncontented stare aimed at me out through the window. It’s time to find the prawn and lamb biscuits.