Another rambling blog reacting to a rather interesting profile of Pat Barker – another contemporary of Amis who pisses all over him (in my opinion – for the record, I think Tibor Fischer’s Under The Frog is brilliantly funny, but I’ve never been able to finish anything else of his) – disappeared when I clicked on Post and Publish yesterday. I wrote an irate note to the support people and cursed. It also had an idea for a story that I talked through with Mr P on Saturday morning. And can I remember it now?

Well, it had something to do with my teenage anarchist past – and immortalising the Streatham Action Group. Must buy a posh notebook and start making writerly notes.

Then Mum came over with boyfriend and friend L in tow, so we went off to Burgess Park in search of a cricket pitch to teach L the art of cricket. When we got to Burgess Park, there was a Latin American festival in full swing. No big name sponsors (apart from The Arts Council, who were thanked prettily on every float), just lots of food, pretty Latino flags for countries I’d only read about, drink, music, bad dancing and people having a good time. Didn’t have my camera on me, which was a bugger.

The dancers were woefully unco-ordinated, but that didn’t matter, because it was a proper community festival: you went up, did your thing, and your friendsandrelations applauded wildly. Punters ignored the big Nando’s stall and crowded around the Brazilian and Ecuadorian barbecues on either side. I felt quite sorry for the Nando’s staff, who were desperately trying to drum up business and whose shouts were drowned out by the general chatter.

We hung around for a bit, but then decided to have a game of cricket in a quiet spot. Mother turns out to be a rather deadly accurate medium pace bowler, and everybody forgot that pregnant women shouldn’t run around like lunatics – until Mum’s boyf gently moved me to square leg and told me not to run too much. Then a pub lunch with papers and a not-bad pint of Courage Best. A Perfect Sunday.

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