H is for.....

I've probably mentioned before that I like Halloween, which is strange because all the other grumpy old women I know hate it.  I like little children knocking on my door, looking proud of themselves in their costumes.  I like decorating the house with cobwebs that are meant to be there.  I like making my trick or treat cakes (some with jam in, some with chutney).  I like pumpkin soup (although I don't really like carving the pumpkin).

This year I was feeling quite sad about Halloween because my daughter is at University having her own 'grown up' Halloween party and my son is in Salem and I'm not jealous.  Oh no, not in the slightest.  Really, honestly, I've never wanted to go to Salem and certainly not at Halloween. (This might not be true). Even the neighbours have grown up and stopped believing that I'm a witch and the Long Suffering Husband has never been interested in listening to one of my made up spooky stories.

I consoled myself, however, with the fact that it was a Friday night, which meant orchestra.  I had promised we would do Danse Macabre and Nightmare Before Christmas.  What we didn't plan on was having more adult helpers than children.  We should have known that we couldn't compete with half term and Halloween.

Danse Macabre is hard.  We had to do the same bits over and over again and I kept saying, "Let's go from H again."  A peculiar phenomenon of our orchestra is that whenever you say where we are starting from someone always asks, "Where?", so each time I repeat it I add a different ending.
"H for Happy"
"H for Halloween"

As we tried and tried again it became, "H for Hard", "H for Horrid," "H for Horrific."

I began to run out of H's.  "H for Peregrine Falcon," said one boy.  I thought for a while and said that I didn't get it, which I am ashamed of now.  How silly could I have been?  Of course H for Peregrine Falcon, it's a Hawk.

Peregrine Falcon or Duck Hawk

One of the perils of there being more adults than children is that us adults can start to get a little silly.  At the beginning of the rehearsal I had shared an 'interesting fact' with the others that I had picked up on my visit to Melton Mowbray.  Melton Mowbray is in the Vale of Belvoir, which is obviously from the French for beautiful view.  While I was there I was told I was pronouncing it incorrectly.  You don't put on your best french accent and pronounce phonetically.  Oh no, in Leicestershire this beautiful view is pronounced 'beaver'.
"Are there Beavers in the area? " I wondered but then I was sure I'd read something in the Guardian about them only being in Scotland and Devon.
We had a little chuckle about it and decided that they're a bit odd in Leicestershire.

So when I said, "H for beaver, (*whispered) hairy beaver." There were some giggles and snorts.

I still wasn't quite sure I believed it, so I asked an expert.  At my very first day at University I met a girl from Leicester (we've been friends ever since and I really will make the effort to visit soon).  We used to rib her about the way she spoke, when she said things like, "Shall we catch the buzz?" and "Would you like a cheese cob?"

It is true. It's the Vale of Beaver, Beaver Street and Beaver cordials.  She told me that it explains why she was never any good at French.

My favourite drink, other than water

Thank goodness the Belvoir cordials and presses hadn't been invented
otherwise we would have really laughed at her when she asked us if we fancied a glass of Beaver juice!