Driving along as it was almost dark at five o’clock this afternoon, there was a moment when time seemed to slip and the road wasn’t the M50 but a narrow, winding unclassified road through a very rural part of
It was 4.40 and we were going out for our tea before going to the Christmas bingo at Burrowbridge village hall. No memories of the tea remain, but the bingo night remains vivid. There were lines of wooden folding chairs with an aisle up the middle and on the stage one of those machines that blew ping pong balls around in a rectangular glass box. There was an opening in the top through which the caller would push his hand to take out the numbered balls.
The men running the bingo (they were all men) were big countrymen. They all dressed in suits and conducted the whole evening with a great deal of gravitas as though levity might in some way call into account their integrity. A book to play the ten bingo games cost twelve and a half pence. Everyone would have bought tickets for the raffle as well. Each game came in two parts – there was a prize for the first person who completed whatever line they might call out – top middle or bottom and then a bigger prize for the first person to complete the card.
The prizes were brilliant, there were turkeys and hampers and bottles of sherry and boxes of chocolates. It was no wonder that the hall was filled to capacity and the overflow sat in the kitchen where the serving hatch was open so that people could hear the numbers.
The air was electric as each game approached its conclusion. To be able to shout ‘house’ seemed to generate as much delight for a winner as they would have felt if they were lifting the FA Cup. There would have been a huge wave of conversation as the winner’s card was taken to the front to be checked. Once a person had made a false call, a number had been misheard; beetroot would not have described their colour.
We were rustic and unsophisticated and easily pleased, but no night in the