By: Blonde Two
Dear Blondees and Blondettes
I would like to take this opportunity to sing the praises of my good friend (really, very, muchly good friend) Blonde One.
We have just finished a two day expedition. To the outsider, it might appear to have been a simple affair; two days walking (not too much distance but some big hills) around the lanes of Devon, an overnight camp at a beautiful site with loos and showers, three Young Leaders and some lovely Duke of Edinburgh newbies.
Whilst I had a jolly Bimble, a nice sleep in a tent and a giggle with the kids; Blonde One has been doing some pretty impressive juggling (not with balls although there is a whole blog post to write about balls). She has been juggling the diverse needs of two groups of youngsters. Our Bronze DofE first timers needed the usual encouragement, advice and general motivation. Our Young Leaders needed the opportunity to lead, the freedom to make their own decisions and a forum to discuss the implications of those decisions. Somehow (and I am not quite sure how she pulled it off), Blonde One managed to provide all of that for all of our youngsters with complete and utter aplomb.
It was impressive to watch and a privilege to be a part of. Well done Blonde One – very good skills indeed!
Glowingly Yours (not just the sunburn)
Blonde Two
Dear, dear me – I’ve so neglected Two Blondes Walking, this fount of worthwhile energy, this perpetual motion machine, this rosy, healthy, optimistic shout of achievement down there in the bit of England that sticks out, directing attention towards the Azores and – ultimately – towards Puerto Ordaz in Venezuela, a place I once visited and saw the warning notice at the hotel swimming pool: Beware of snakes!
By all means let me add my plaudits to Blonde One, urged by Blonde Two. Of course, of course – hear my hands clapping until they’re raw -. except that it’s hard to separate this gilded pair of displaced Vikings, striding, laughing, tending their flock of lambs, adding to the nation’s accumulated store of fitness. While I, so obviously a modern-day iteration of what Baden-Powell identified as A Weed, listless, hands-in-pocket, smoking (well, at least I don’t do that), an ugly example of manhood on the street corner, contributing nothing to the general well-being.
Not even supported by golden Blonde-ish memories. As a Wolf Cub (the entity that preceded Cub Scouts) I wanted to attach badges to my shirt sleeve proving I was competent at cooking, tracking and first aid. But before that there were general tests with huge insurmountable requirements. Eventually I learned to skip forwards thirty times but never more than five times backwards. Had I managed that I would have faced learning Morse code or semaphore. Impossible. Were I to be re-granted a youthful mind in a youthful body I would have myself transported to the West Country, surreptitiously to sign up with the DoE scheme, hoping against hope for a transfusion of that plenitude of happy muscularity and good sense that the Blondes disburse as naturally as breathing.
And what’s my excuse? Why have I spent time revising stuff written about people working in offices, for goodness sake, while the Blondes (I no longer use my earlier abbreviations B1 and B2 – they weren’t respectful or sufficiently adulatory) have grappled with the elements – and won! Old age? Poor tack, really.
Will dog Latin do for the moment: Floreat Blondesii!
Thank you very much. If I could pronounce “Floreat Blondesii”, I would take it up a very majestic tor and shout it to the four winds. There is a place called Four Winds on Dartmoor but it is a walled car park most noted in Blonde history as the place we started our first (Blonde One’s only as she passed first time) night navigation assessment, a place therefore, of fear! There is a majestic tor above it so maybe that would be appropriate after all. I believe we may be visiting next weekend.
Mr. Robinson, sir! To have failed to tackle Morse Code! You have missed the greatest rhythmic delight imaginable! When I remember the delights of chatting in execrable German with friends across the sea in a language (Morse is a language) that goes so slowly that you can look up the answers in the dictionary as they come in, I feel the deepest sorrow at your loss.
And Semaphore! To pass a meaningful message (they have to be meaningful these days) by the insouciant wave of 2 poles, each with a pretty cloth square attached, along a line of eager Cubs or Brownies until the garbled (always garbled) remains return to you – oh, you haven’t lived!
I’m blushing Blonde Two. Of course none of it would be possible or so enjoyable without you! Thank you! X