A Midsummer Night's Doom

St John's Eve!  A traditional olde English time to be rampaging round the English countryside, engaging in traditional olde English pursuits.

In days gone by, on St John's Eve, olde English people of a certain age would sit around in the church hatch waiting to see whose ghosts were going into the church - and which would come out.  Which would lead to a certain thoughtfulness of a St John's Day for some.  Meanwhile the unmarried young people of the village, hamlet or other rural settlement would tear out into the woods in a ritual that has been faithfully reproduced by our own Beaker Fertility Folk since time immemorial, or at least 2004.  

This year's festivities will be slightly dampened by the sad loss of Private Sponge from Dad's Army.  His passing will be mourned by all those whose role in life it is to hang around at the back looking like a spare part and wishing we were one of the lead players.  Or most of us, in other words.  In honour of Private Sponge's passing, we would like to include a liturgy incorporating his catchphrase, but we're not sure he actually had one.

Anyone going out after 10pm, please ensure you wear hi-viz.  The late-night traffic on the Woburn road seems to increasingly dangerous these days and walking back along it from the White Horse is never sensible.  As my old dad used to say, before he so tragically succumbed to that incident with the baler, "do you think that's wise?"