We waited on the pavements edge
Costa coffee opposite and Subway to our rear
and the sunshine played on to the growing numbers
as the trick cyclist whistled his way up and down the street
while his mate, the sweaty guy on his spring loaded stilts, bounced between us
shouting encouragement and gesturing wildly to those that caught his eye.
Ordinary cars that passed looked out of place
uncomfortable at being there stared at by so many sets of eyes,
not the shiny brand new BMW's dressed up in the Olympic colours
but the shabby rusty red Peugeot with "Driven by fairy dust" the message on the back
and the Frome Reclamation truck full of reclaimed tiles
on their way to be reclaimed again.
The unlicensed sellers of the union flags took two pounds for something to wave,
"Just a couple left son," but we knew they had plenty more stock
hidden in their van parked in the free car park behind Argos.
We needed something red white and blue and we shook them at yet another empty bus
(why there are so many empty buses in Frome remains a mystery)
School children filed in up the hill in their bright flack jackets a colourful crocodile
so they too could be seen as bright as any flame
their home made torches in their hands wondering what all the fuss was about.
At long last the wiry, weary promotional girls from Coke and Lloyds
and a phone company that has helped to sponsor the coming games
rev us up into our market town frenzy from the lofty perches of their tailor-made tour buses
with music and dancing and razzamatazz and promises of a brighter tomorrow and things that will go better
and gold for all or those that cross the line first. Shake that pompom Miss, shake that pompom do.
You're a long way from Greece and quite a stretch to London.
The girl behind me wants to "Evacuate London" or so her stencil proclaims
and she talks to the teenage copper on crowd control, shows him her message.
He's one of a team rarely seen in these parts and he just smiles and sends her back to where she has come from.
Pointless trying to piss on this parade Luv, I hope he said under his helmet.
The sun shone into the eyes of those on the opposite side, Somerset squinters,
and the toddler let her balloon slip and it blew across the road to be rescued by another and returned
to the anxious child with everyone happy and united just standing on the side of the road waiting for the Greek flame.
From their high vantage point on top of Barclays Bank a few heads nodded in the sunshine
a real banker's bonus and the girl in the open window above Boots had a good eyeful too.
The police outriders on their motor bikes waved at us as they never have before.
Some of us waved back which seemed strange to be befriending the traffic cop who on another day
would be throwing the book at us for speeding or talking on the mobile phone.
Cameras everywhere and one on a tripod being worked by a girl in a green and white spotty summer frock.
She should have been going to a picnic or off to nearby Babington for lunch not dressed like that for Points West.
And still we waited for the Greek flame.
Would it infect us and turn our decimal coinage back into pounds, shillings and pence?
Could its flicking be carrying a message of despair, a real Greek tragedy waiting to unfold?
Someone had an umbrella with the union flag on it just in case of rain but this was no longer wet April
but sunny mid May and long to reign over us we all hoped. No Greek drama here please.
The ice-cream van doing a roaring trade and the Cornish pasties from Gregg's the Baker
warm but not as hot as the midday sun.
Will they remember this in years to come? Will the children say yes I was there
when the Greek flame came through our market town
on its way from Taunton to Bristol?
Maybe they will and maybe they won't.
They won't remember the beaming white haired man
who held the silver meshed torch aloft and proudly jogged down the hill passed the Crown (up for rent) and on past Card Factory
looking colourful and smug surrounded by the bunting that had escaped and spread like a victorious spider's web above us all.
Who he was matters little. What he stood for matters lots. Will I Am did it the previous day down the road
and the children will probably remember Will for all the wrong reasons. Famous for his moon walk and the Voice
rather than what it all really means.
But It did bring a tear to my eye. Call me sentimental but I thought the whole extravaganza was wonderful.
Even the Postie who right at the end peddled hard to get through the closing throng before the street was clogged
delivering his mail without fuss or applause as he does nearly every day.
Waiting in the Somerset sunshine.
Waiting for the Greek flame.
