A Jolly time for a Jubilee

A Jolly Day for a Jubilee

It had been a weekend of mass celebrations for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and one town went all out. They took over the entire high street to celebrate with every resident and their family.

As my company was engaged in making the event look fabulous, setting up props, dressing the high street with bunting and flags, I was personally responsible for anchoring the many wooden planters I had purposefully built, laden with red, white and blue flowers.

All the great and good attended.

Street artists and magicians swooped between the tables and chairs, seeking out the younger enthusiasts. Local celebrity musicians filled the centre stage, meeting the musical needs of every generation taking turns with high-brow stand-up comedians in making most people feel uncomfortable.

But no moment was more important than the meeting of the Mayor from the twinned French town with his other half, the Mayor of this town. Their solid handshakes helped everyone feel at ease again.

Many were reluctant to leave the street party and return home with half eaten celebration vol-au-vents, bits of baguette soaked in coronation chicken and mushy Queen of Puddings.

But it was my job to revert the party back to the high street. And my responsibility was de-rigging the picket fencing attached to planters around the VIP area. A small gathering was sitting with the town Mayor.

I remember I was on my knees, electric screw-driver in hand being as discreet as possible, releasing the planter from the fencing when I realised the Mayor was addressing me. He was curious. And, of course, as a female with electric tools in her hands, I am a curiosity.

Anyway, we talked a bit about what I did. And I answered “Yes” to the questions about how I build planters. “No” to questions about them being too heavy. “Yes” to it being hot work in the Summer. It was a fairly predictable chat. One that I don’t think he would have had with a bloke but, that’s okay. I’m happy to oblige. His companions seemed interested. And this was the Mayor, so I wanted to be polite.

We compared our work wear: him wearing a heavy gold chain over his very blue, soft-looking fabric, long coat and me in my hard boots and Hi-Viz top. I thought we were getting along famously. We were laughing and everything.

But then, he asked, “Does your boss allow you to wear those shorts?”

My shorts were appropriate for the day that was basked in sunshine and gloriously warm. They were appropriate for my physical work, and I was the boss.

Without thinking, I replied: “At least I didn’t come out in my dressing gown!”

He annoyed me.