Sunday 21st May 2006

This is how good the Hodgkinson’s Hotelin Matlock Bath is, they get you drunk in the evening and then let you fester in your bed all morning without disturbing you. Try getting that at the local Travelodge. It was almost midday when I woke up, feeling better than I’d expected to which is probably due to the lovely bed. Showered and out into the rainy day, I thought it would be a waste to go straight home and so decided to have another ride on the Heights Of Abraham cable car, which I’ve not been on for about twenty years.

The ride up is good fun, if marred today by the low visibility, and at the top there’s plenty to keep yourself amused. I was eating some lunch when I was forced into one of those weird conversations with an overly confident five year old boy who strode up to my table and announced “Hello.�

You get these kids don’t you? They’re normally very middle class and have very ‘modern’ parents, who treat them like ‘young people’ instead of kids and therefore encourage them to act in a way that doesn’t really fit an infant. It’s a bit disconcerting, as if you could discuss the situation in Iraq with them, or the ludicrous price of oil. They always look ridiculously healthy too – they’ve been brought up on food from the garden, without a chicken nugget ever having passed their lips. It’s hard to criticise people wanting to bring their children up with emphasis on health, learning and communication, but as I say, they’re not really kids anymore.

“What are you having to eat?� the child demanded.

“Frogs.� I said, playfully. Hoping he’d go ‘Euuurrrrgghhh!’ or something.

“No you are not. You’re having fish. I can see its fish.�

This is the problem, there’s no play in them. Well, unless you fancy a game of Risk or Trivial Pursuits. It’s the confidence that’s annoying though. I looked up to see where this young man’s parents were, and they were sat idly nearby, probably called Tom and Sophie, could see their son at my table engaging me in conversation, yet were not in the least worried that he might be disturbing me. They probably thought it highly unlikely that I wouldn’t want to converse with their erudite and brilliant young son.

If the world was perfect, and you could just do whatever you wanted without any fear of consequence or reprisal I’d have casually called out to the parents “Excuse me, could you remove your idiot offspring? His vile manners and uncouth tongue are bothering me.� But of course you could never say that. You could… I’d love to have the nerve.

I continued eating my fish, giving the boy a suspicious, but not unfriendly eye as I did do.

“I don’t like fish. I like chicken.� Said the boy.

“What’s your name?’ I asked.

“Jacob.�

“Course it is.�

“What’s yours?�

“Stanley.�

“Oh.�

“Did you like the cable car?� I asked.

“I’ve been on it ten times now.�

“That doesn’t answer my question.�

“How many times have you been on it?�

“Twice.�

“Ha!�

I looked up at the parents again, this time with an air of ‘this your kid?’ but they didn’t get the message and continued to chat casually, seemingly uncaring that young Jacob could be talking to a serial killer. Eventually he left, without saying goodbye even though I had done, and went to annoy someone else with his preposterous self assurance. The little freak.

If I ever have children and take them to The Heights Of Abraham, they’ll be out in the play area with the other kids getting mucky, not confronting adults in the restaurant. You almost have to pity Jacob, just think what he’ll be like when he’s eighteen? About 78.

It reminded me that the last time I’d been here I’d been a child and phoned my Dad, asking if he remembered the visit. He did clearly, and added that there’s a medieval tower by the disembarkation point for the cable car where you climb up the spiral stone steps inside and come out onto a viewing platform at the top, where the views are even better. He remembered that when I was last there, I couldn’t see over the wall.

So I went to seek my revenge on the tower, climbed it with my adult legs, and could easily see over the wall at the top. I must have been a bit of a short-arse when I was nine though, it’s not a high wall. But revenge on the tower was mine.

Dad’s always jealous of my adventures, and I could sense his envy at me being in beautiful Derbyshire whilst he was not. He expressed this my saying “Right, I’m off to the tip.�

This made me laugh enough to nearly fall off the tower.

On the drive home I soon passed a village called Bakewell, which on the drive down yesterday I’d noted had a football pitch with goals, and behind one of the goals a large metal screen to stop errant shots flying into the kid’s playground. This makes it perfect for practicing free kicks because you’d not have to run miles to get balls that have flown through or over the goal.

I had some boots and about five footballs in the car so parked up, got out, and spent a good while practicing the noble free kick by myself. Soon a lad on a bike came over and asked if he could play too and so we did, sending crosses in for one another, etc. Just playing. It was a really nice thing to do on a Sunday afternoon, if a wee bit wet and muddy. Something I hope Jacob finds out about one day, but very much doubt he will.

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