Being on the Parish Poor List.

I had a visit from one of the teachers from the local primary school this morning. It seems I’d been allocated a ‘harvest basket’ which consisted of a small box containing a few basic foodstuffs. 

‘Well,’ you might say, ‘isn’t that splendid?’ Erm… yes… but…

As I understand these things, harvest baskets are traditionally given to the poor, the needy and the elderly of the parish. So let’s take them one by one, shall we?

I admit to being poor and it doesn’t trouble me in the least that I might be seen as such. But ‘poor’ is a relative term, and I’m only relatively poor. I’m not poor enough to need a small basket of basic foodstuffs from the village primary school.

I admit to being needy, too, but my needs are curious ones. My need of food is easily met by the judicious management of my small income.

The last one gives me the real problem. I’m growing old, yes, but that’s a relative term, too. The term ‘elderly’ carries connotations which DO NOT APPLY TO ME. I won’t consider myself to be elderly even when I pass the state retirement age, which I haven’t got to yet.

So, I asked the question: Why me?

‘Because you gave stuff from your garden to Angela a few times,’ said the nice teacher. Ah, right; now I’ve got it. She was referring, of course, to the big bags of rhubarb I took to Angela the cook for the making of crumble a couple of years ago. (There wasn’t any this year. The rhubarb harvest was effectively non-existent.)

Much relief, therefore. They were just returning the favour, and it really was splendid that they’d though about me. Wasn’t it? Yes. And when I saw it in those terms, I even felt mildly emotional.