By: Blonde Two
Can you see us?
The answer to this questions is likely to be in the negative, but there is a chance that you might be able to … just one of us that is. You would have to be standing on something very high indeed to catch a glimpse of both Blondes right now; a planet maybe, or perhaps the moon would do. You could (because you love being outside) maybe climb Mons Huygens (the highest mountain on the moon – but not the highest point) and give the pair of us a wave.
Or you could resign yourself to a viewing of just one Blonde. You would have to choose which one, and which adventure you would like to observe. Do you want to stomp through the snows of Scotland with Blonde One, firm in your conviction that you know the difference between a crampon and a tampon? Or would you prefer to splosh through the valleys of Wales with Blonde Two, bellowing ‘Men of Harlech’ and ‘Guide Me Oh Thou Great Jehovah’ as you go?
The choice, as they declare on Dartmoor, is yours. They will have to declare this very loudly on Dartmoor at the moment, because we are not there. We are not there and we are not together. But fear not, Mr Welsh (who is not in Wales) and Running Girl (who I hope will not be running) will look after us; and soon we will be home and telling you all about our ‘overseas’ adventures.
Hope it isn’t a damp one – for either of you; we had some lovely sunshine today, once the morning cloud drifted away; and I have 12 pools of frogspawn in the pond. The spawning started yesterday – 11 days earlier than last year!
There’s a note of superiority creeping in, perhaps even galloping in. The assumption that to be out and about, shrouded in equipment that proclaims your métier makes you more valuable members of the human race. Whereas those who confine themselves to telly-watching are, unlike you, doing the decent thing and not cluttering up the National Trust. I’m beginning to wonder what all this yomping is doing for your conversation: you write well but that’s quickly over, much more time is spent – or should be spent – converting the outdoors experience into limpid oral prose. Chatting, that is.
Here I am, sittting on one of the outer rings of Saturn with a powerful telescope, feeling very superior indeed: your mouths are opening and closing suggesting communication is occurring but of what quality and to what end? No doubt you’ll tell me you are Peter Ustinov and Susan Greenfield combined but I may find myself asking for sworn affidavits. ‘Tis my métier to introduce a sense of doubt.
Probably at the exact moment you were writing this comment about superiority, I was crying in a Welsh bog composing a blog post about feeling inferior. It’s all subjective really, isn’t it!