Tim Davey Fringe benefits
It was a day off. In the middle of the week. But I was still washed, coiffed and trendily attired just after sunrise. I was excited, you see. Who wouldn't be? I was going on a trip, with "the boys". Well, the last bit's something of a misnomer. There were three of us and while one of the trio can still claim to possess a vague flush of youth, the others most certainly can not. I am one of those two.
We were heading to a military museum, in a scenario that was reminiscent of Three Go Wild In Dorset crossed with Last Of The Summer Wine. There was a reasonably lucid explanation as to why we were going there. One of us, a visitor from an isolated community somewhere near Papua New Guinea, where the lonely winter nights are long and indistinguishable from the days, has a passion for militaria.
He has a nerd-like knowledge when it comes to fighting forces from conflicts past. So this place was his destination of choice and the remainder of us acquiesced with his demands. And why not? Paying the admission fee was going to be his treat.
Now, it's amazing how time flies when you're playing TheBest Of Mott The Hoople on the car audio and we were soon parked up and heading for the entrance, unmistakable by the presence of a large tank hanging around by the doorway. My Commonwealth friend then marches up to the pay desk and jovially asks for two concessions (hard to believe, I know) and, jokes, pointing to our more youthful colleague: "One for the child behind."
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Before you knew it we were in the café, scoffing coffee and cakes a la Billy Bunter, followed by a two-and-a-half hour wander through what seemed like every conceivable tracked military vehicle ever created. I knew nothing about tanks before my visit and still don't, but it was very interesting. On the road again sometime later we were discussing our museum experience. That's when we realised the cashier had, indeed, taken the man from the other side of the world at his word and only charged a child's fee for our younger friend's ticket. People play it all too straight, these days, and take things too literally, don't you think?
Anyway, on we drove, laughing and joking towards one of those celebrated Thomas Hardy towns where, after feasting in the greasiest of greasy spoons, overseas friend decided to end the day on a high by getting his hair cut. He had his eyebrows trimmed, too. All for a bargain eight quid.
It was only back home in Bristol we realised he'd been given a wobbly eyebrow trim, giving him a permanent quizzical look. Proof you do only ever get what you pay for.
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