It's wicked to mock the afflicted

I am starting to enjoy this May fayre tradition. I was taking a walk and stumbled upon it this year. The hot, hazy day convinced me that I should seek out the beer tombola stand I enjoyed last year. With my two pounds I won a bottle of export and a bottle of lime cordial. Near the May pole I found the same group of shirtless bikers that I blogged about. At least I think it was the same group. One sunburned and tattooed cockney biker looks very much the same as the next one, with the exception of the one with Downs syndrome. He was something unique. I don’t know why I was surprised to see a disabled man with a tattoo on his shoulder. A mental handicap should not exclude one from having the words 'strike furious' beneath a hissing cobra inked upon your flesh. He and his buddies slammed down their tombola winnings and enthused about the May pole dancers. Mr. Strike-Furious eyes crinkled with mirth as he marvelled at the intricate braids the girls were making as they skipped in their twisting circles. At the end of each song, the bikers clapped and cheered. Everyone in the crowd smiled at their unabashed, albeit intoxicated, joy. They repeated this for every song the girls danced. The laughed, made appreciative comments on the dancers' abilities and clapped in time with the music, to which others joined in.

It was one of those moments of perfection we all seek, some knowingly, most not, where everything is right and good in that moment and place you happen to be occupying.