Lunar loonies

I wouldn't say that we've quite got to the stage which Joel Fleischman reached during his first summer in Cicely, when the midnight sun and his consequent insomnia drove him completely round the twist, but we do have a noticeable outbreak of midsummer madness afflicting the stable. Today is the summer solstice, and all we have been hearing is repeated discussion about druids, exegesis of ancient grimoires, rams' horns and the like. The problem with druids, as demonstrated by the 'Inspector Morse' episode in which various druids were bumped off, is that, when they aren't being druids, they just seem like normal upstanding members of society - so working out who will be heading off to a clearing in Thetford Forest or a cluster of stones on Salisbury Plain tonight to partake in pagan rituals isn't easy. Of current members of staff, Martha is obviously favourite to fall for this nonsense, but of former members Jim is the likeliest. Of our neighbours, who will be summoning up the spirits tonight? Jonathan Jay? Willie Musson? Don Cantillon? All three? The likelihood is that Dave Morris won't be involved, but one just never knows.

To add to the feeling of weirdness, we currently have a colleague who speaks not a word of English. Her name is Tunda (or sounds like Tunda) and she is Hungarian. She is on a course at the Racing School (none of the staff at which speaks a word of Hungarian, incidentally) except that the course is currently having a three-week intermission; and, rather than go back to Hungary during this break, she is here. Having her here is not quite as unfeasible as it sounds, but it is rather odd: as anglophones, we are rather accustomed, wherever we go in the world, to being able to have some sort of dialogue, however rudimentary, with the people we meet, so it does come as rather a shock to find, without even leaving home, a person with whom we can find not one word which we both understand. Well, that's not completely true, as the word 'OK' is common to both languages, but that's pretty much it. But she's very pleasant and helpful, so things seem to be working out satisfactorily - and if she thinks otherwise, she hasn't said so. Or not in words that we can understand, anyway.

Perhaps the most awkward moment of Tunda's stay so far was when I realised that I didn't know if she knew where to find the lavatory. You wouldn't find the lavatory unless it was pointed out to you - but how was I to point it out to her? I couldn't tell her; and in this age of sexual harrassment in the workplace, it might have been unwise for me to beckon to her to follow me, then lead her down the passage and into the lavatory, just pointing at it when we arrived there. She might have thought that I wanted to commit what Richard Sims would describe as "a low act", and one just can't be too careful in this day and age. Anyway, I solved the problem when it was time for a tea-break, asking Martha to beckon her into the lavatory and to indicate that she could wash her hands in the basin (thinking that she'd notice that there was also a lavatory in the room, and would store that knowledge away for future reference).

And on the subjects of the Racing School and midsummer madness, we haven't seen Gemma for a couple of days. There might, of course, be a perfectly innocent explanation, but I wouldn't be surprised if Simon has dragged her off to join his friend Bohemian Pierre in observing the solstice with some atavistic ritual on Dunwich Heath. If that's the case, perhaps they could do something to exorcise the luck which bedevilled us in the barrier draw for Great Leighs on Thursday: two runners, each in a (different) 16-runner race, stall 15 and stall 16. Amazing!