My only negative observation is that they’re far better brewers than photographers.

The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge theme for May is “Home”

Barry can feel another argument is upon him. He takes a deep breath and adopts his “calm and reasonable” persona.
“I haven’t spent any time with the lads for months. Why would you object to us having a poker night?” He’s worried this sounds a bit whiney.
Karen spreads more mascara and tears across her cheek, and supresses a sob.
“I don’t object to you spending time with your mates but you don’t need to be gambling.”
He can see she has calmed down a little but is still unsure of his ground.
“You like a flutter on the lottery. What’s the difference?”
Woof! It’s like he’s lit the blue touch paper. Immediately, she is ranting again; her face twisted, like she’s in pain and jabbing her finger at him.
“I don’t invite a bunch of drunks here when I buy a lottery ticket, do I? Are you fucking stupid or what?” She’s glaring at him; challenging him; daring him to argue some more. But Barry still doesn’t understand.
“So it’s not the gambling you object to?”
“No” she barks.
“Well, I know you like Kev and Andy. You’re happy enough in their company in the pub on a Friday night. And Micky’s alright: you’re OK with Micky aren’t you?”
Karen gives one of her pained sighs that’s supposed to tell him that he’s an utter moron, bereft of all reasoning power. She takes on the long-suffering parent tone.
“It’s not for me to choose your drinking mates. For what it’s worth, I have no problem with any of them: I think they’re a good bunch of lads.” Barry is even more confused. Is she being deliberately obtuse? What on earth is she getting at? He tries one more time.
“Well, what is the problem then?”
“Do I need to draw you a picture or something?” she sneers, sarcasticly “I don’t want them here. This is my home. This is where I shut the world out. This is where I feel safe. I need a haven from all the crap out there. If you want to play poker, then piss off down the pub.”

I have no belief in anything religious or metaphysical.  My regular readers will know, there are several starkly atheistic posts within this blog.

Folklore is not a subject that has challenged my mind much.  It has occurred to me however, over the last week or so, that this is a blinkered approach.  Britain has a rich and varied folklore, inherited over thousands of years, that informs our national character and outlook.  I doubt King Arthur or Robin Hood ever took breath, but I know their tales like the back of my hand, and so, I’d wager, do my peers.  That’s a bond of sorts.

I rarely find cause for pride in “Britain’s” activities in the world, but I still have a kinship with my fellow countrymen.  I will not be chasing faeries down the garden any time soon, but I have to accept that faeries form part of our history, albeit imagined history.  And maybe, that is it imagined, doesn’t really matter anyway.  The important distiction is that sufficient of our forebears felt the need to pass this material on to the next generation and so it lives with us.