As a kid I loved this book. I could relate to Kizzy, standing out but not fitting in. She got bullied at school. She was feisty. She was strong. The definition of Diddakoi is “caravan-dwelling roadside people who are not true Roma”. But Kizzy was more Roma than me. She was part Roma and part Gorgio (that’s Romany for non Gypsy). Who was I?
The boys at school called me a “dirty hippy, gypo”. The daughters of Born Again Christians told me I wasn’t allowed to come to their birthday parties because my mum was a hippy. These taunts perplexed me. When it was my birthday all these kids wanted to come to my parties. What was wrong with being a hippy anyway?
I went home and told Mum. She usually had a good answer for most things. ‘Well you tell them, that Jesus was the first hippy!’
she said. So I did.
One of my teachers didn’t like me because once the grass started growing, school was out. We’d harness up our grumpy New Forest pony and set off in the wagon to the East Anglian Fairs. These fairs were legendary. They were magical and innocent, they were off grid and gentle. They were inclusive and cheap.
Our summers began with the Bungay May Fair. After this we’d trot on to the various Albion fairs which took place all over Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire: Oaksmere, Rougham Tree Fair, The Faerie Fair, Strawberry Fair...
Modern day festivals are not the same as these fairs. For starters they’re expensive and often noisy.
Here’s a photo of my late mother at what’s called ‘The Big Green Gathering’. Tickets aren’t cheap (fortunately horse drawn folk are allowed in free). It’s 2007 and my eldest son is sitting behind and underneath Diamond, Mum’s Dales mare. A fine looking animal.
At first Mum liked The Big Green Gathering. ‘It’s just like the fairs Nancy!’ she exclaimed with a happy smile.
After forty-eight hours of ear splitting electronic punk noise blasting out of a nearby marquee, she got fed up. Mum asked the men inside to turn it down, ‘or else’ (she could be ferocious).
‘Are you threatening us?’ they said to her. ‘No. I’m warning you.’
In the end her horse drawn friend Michael took a pair of tin cutters to their lead. The men were furious. They started having a go at him.
‘What?’, said Michael. ‘As anarchists I thought you’d respect me for doing that.’ They looked at the ground, non plussed (Michael is good at thinking on his feet).
Mum was equally unimpressed with Special Brew Woman who kept forgetting to give her suckling mare any water.
‘You ought to tend to your animals before you tend to yourself! That mare’s got a foal to feed! I’ll shop you to the ILPH!’
Good old Mum.
In the end she and Michael pulled off the festival site and onto a peaceful grass verge nearby. All that could be heard was the crackling of the fire as the kettle sung on the iron, the sound of birdsong, the rustling of leaves in the summer breeze.
But back to my existential crisis, who am I? I may not stand out any more (got myself a nice selection of ‘straight’ clothes now). But I sure as hell don’t fit in. Do you? Does anyone?