It should have been sunny, it was the beginning of May after all, and the windmill was elusive. Sometimes I write about my travels, years ago qualified as a City of London Guide, and love maps – I drew them for the the Independent newspaper after all.
But that cloudy May afternoon I read my little map upside down and looked for the windmill on the left side of Brixton Hill rather than the right. All was eventually well though, and I met up with jolly musicians and revellers many of whom seemed to know my daughter who’d lived in Brixton a few years ago, and greeted me as ‘her mum’. One of the musicians wore a green cloak printed and sewn by my daughter. ‘I always wear it at festivals,’ she told me.
Jack in the Green paraded, a brass band played, a disconcerting horse pranced and snapped its teeth, the windmill ground bags of flour, then families danced round a maypole, resulting in tangled mayhem.
Later we were encouraged to fall on the Jack in the Green and dismantle his foliage. Children screamed in delight as they tore off leaves and branches. There was tea and cake, a formidable queue for the toilet, more music and dancing and great fun. Who needs sunshine?