ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Gazebo Spectator
Another week, another DUK ONNA STIKK!!1!! The ritual endures, gentle readers. Markets may rise and fall, gazebos may stand or surrender, but the Holy Hour remains the fixed point around which my entire existence orbits. Long may it wave. Long may it taste of duck.
So we all jumped into the “red” car — the Peugeot, the Phantom Chariot, the vehicular imposter that has yet to earn my affection — and off we went to Greenacres. I am getting used to this car slowly, I suppose. Familiarity breeds… well, not contempt exactly, but something adjacent to acceptance. I no longer wrinkle my nose every time I climb in. The smell is still wrong — too new, too clean, too lacking in history — but I am a professional. I adapt. I endure. I sit on Mummy’s lap and watch the Welsh coast slide past and remind myself that the car is merely a conveyance, not a colleague.
But I am still not a fan. Not at all. Some opinions are immutable.
The Weather & The War Wound
It looks like the ridiculously hot weather has gone elsewhere, and not a week too soon. Good riddance to it. For a few fairs, scorching sunshine is a nice change — a novelty, a talking point, an excuse to deploy the AIR CON beastie on full blast. But after several weeks of three or four fairs a week, the relentless heat gets pretty old. The pavements stop being surfaces and start being threats. The shade becomes a precious commodity, fought over by dogs and hoomans alike. I am ready for autumn. I am ready for crisp mornings and cool breezes and the kind of weather that makes a quilt feel like a hug rather than a burden.
Speaking of old, the old war wound is receding. The left knee — the luxating patella, the clicky hip, the whole troublesome assembly — has quietened down considerably. Now, how much of that is the gooff juice and how much is my taking it easy-easy, I do not know. The medicine is certainly doing something — the world feels softer after a dose, the edges blurred in a pleasant rather than alarming way. But equally, I have embraced the stroller lifestyle. I am resting more than I have ever rested, which is saying something for a dog whose primary skill is napping.
I’ll take the win, readers. I do not need to know its origins. A victory is a victory, whether it comes from a bottle or a lifestyle change or the benevolent intervention of the universe. The knee is behaving. That is all that matters.
A New Pitch & A Perfect View
Now, here is the real scoop of the week: a new location for us at Greenacres.
Not a new venue — we know Greenacres well, it is our Sunday staple, our bread and butter — but a new spot. Directly opposite our usual pitch. The market organisers, in their wisdom, moved us across the thoroughfare.
And I LIKE IT.
The open front of the stall now faces the entrance to the main building. You know the one — the swimming pool, the arcade, the shop, the whole bustling complex of holidaymaker activity. As the hoomans leave that building, blinking into the daylight, they come through the door and the first thing they see is Jon and Mary’s Curios.
The first thing.
Not a burger van. Not a tombola. Not some bloke selling sunglasses and mobile phone cases. Us. Our stall. Our silver sparklies and wooden robots and keepsake boxes and — most importantly — yours truly.
It is a great feeling, gentle readers, to see the peepuls’ little faces light up as they emerge into the light. There is a moment of transition — from the artificial gloom of the leisure centre to the natural brightness of the market square — and in that moment, their eyes land on us. On the jewellery gleaming in the sun. On the robots standing to attention. On the small dog in the stroller, trilby at a jaunty angle, press pass clearly visible, ready to welcome them to the best purchasing decision of their day.
We had a great day. One of the best ever. And that is saying something, because this has been a difficult year — the heat, the quiet spells, the markets that didn’t quite work out (farewell, Newtown, we hardly knew ye). But this day? This day was a triumph. Pretty good for a difficult year. Pretty good for any year, in fact.
The only trouble with the increased visibility is that it is much harder to launch a sneak bork attack on passing goggies. From the old spot, I had cover. I had angles. I could lie in wait at ground level and deploy a bork at precisely the right moment, when the marauder least expected it. The new spot is too open. Too exposed. The goggies see me before I see them. The element of surprise is gone.
But really — and I say this with all the maturity of a dog who has recently turned nine — that is my hobby, not my way of life. The borking is fun, but it is not my purpose. My purpose is marketing. My purpose is charm. My purpose is to sit in my stroller and look adorable while Mummy sells necklaces and the -ing eejit demonstrates robots. If the sneak borks must diminish so that the sales can flourish, so be it. I am a professional. I make sacrifices.
Pack-Up & The Promise of Home
All too soon — and yet, somehow, exactly on time — it was time to pack up. Everything was loaded into the back of the charabang with the swift efficiency of a team that has done this a hundred times before. The stroller folded. The gazebo dismantled. The remaining stock boxed and stowed. The Really Useful Boxes living up to their name.
We all trooped off home. The drive was smooth and uneventful, which is how I prefer my drives. Mummy held me close. The -ing eejit drove in contented silence, a man satisfied with the day’s takings. The Peugeot did whatever Peugeots do — I still do not care enough to learn its ways.
Home. Loki, my bruvah, was waiting with a slow blink that said I see you have returned. The house was too quiet without you. Alice was also present — yuk — but at a safe distance, occupying her armchair like a ginger cloud of silent judgement. I did not approach. I never do.
And then, the moment. The ritual. The reward.
DUK ONNA STIKKKKK!!! The extra Ks were earned this week. A great day deserves an emphatic treat. Chewy. Duck-flavoured. Five stars, as always, but somehow the stars shine brighter when the day has been a triumph.
The Tywyn That Wasn’t
The following day, gentle readers, we were at Tywyn.
Or rather, we attempted to be at Tywyn.
It is a short hop along the coast — barely enough time to get comfortable on Mummy’s lap before we are there. The morning was bright, the sky was blue, and as we pulled into the market square, my heart did a little leap.
It was quite windy.
Yes! Wind! Proper, gusty, canvas-flapping wind! The kind of wind that turns a gazebo from a shelter into a sail! The kind of wind that transforms the -ing eejit from a grumbling driver into a man wrestling with physics itself!
I get to watch him struggle, I thought. Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I chortled in my joy. Finally, after weeks of calm setups and boringly efficient pack-downs, the gazebo was going to fight back. The entertainment was back on the schedule.
I settled into my stroller, positioned for the best view. The -ing eejit unloaded the gazebo. The wind gusted. The canvas billowed. The poles clattered. It was everything I had hoped for.
And then, after about five minutes, he declared it too windy.
Chiz chiz chiz.
The word “chiz” is an old journalistic term for profound disappointment. It is the sound a story makes when it deflates. It is the noise of a scoop that turned out to be a rumour. The -ing eejit, to be fair, was probably right. Everyone’s roofs and walls were flapping all over the place — the serious stalls, the permanent ones, the heavy-duty structures that usually laugh in the face of a breeze. Even they were struggling. Our little gazebo, bless its flimsy heart, is not as structurally sound as those behemoths. It would have become a kite. It would have taken off across the car park with the -ing eejit still attached, a frantic figure tangled in guy ropes, drifting towards the horizon. That would have been a story. But I understand why he chose not to provide it.
Chiz.
So. Back home for breakfast. An unexpected bonus, I suppose. Loki was surprised to see me return so soon. Alice was — yuk — unchanged. And the day stretched ahead, long and quiet, with hours to go until DUK ONNA STIKKKK time.
Ho hum.
Not every day can be a triumph, readers. Some days are wind and disappointment and gazebos that never got to be. But even the quiet days have their consolations: a warm lap, a full bowl, a bruvah who blinks slowly, and the knowledge that next Sunday, the gazebo will rise again.
Signing Off
So there we have it. A tale of two markets. Greenacres: a new pitch, a perfect view, one of the best days ever — despite the loss of the sneak bork advantage. Tywyn: a valiant attempt, a gusty defeat, and a breakfast I was not expecting to eat at home.
The old war wound is quiet. The stroller is proving its worth. The “red” car remains an object of suspicion. The gazebo lives to fight another day. And I remain, as ever, your faithful correspondent.
Until next time, dear readers. May your pitches be prime, your winds be gentle, and your DUK ONNA STIKs be plentiful.
KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Stroller Enthusiast, and Philosopher of the Wind
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