Technical Glitch

Sorry for the gap in transmission, but there have been a few problems here in our lovely village.  Mostly they relate to the lack of decent broadband, though BT have now started phoning again to invite us to take out a high-speed line (for a higher price, naturally) and this time they insist that there really is a high-speed line to be used (last November they were trying it and in fact it wasn’t available).  The whole village was without internet for one day courtesy of the BT upgrade, and when it did return, it seemed to be street by street.  However, my problems also relate to George popping home and deciding to ‘upgrade’ the computer.  It probably wasn’t entirely his fault and it was definitely lovely having him home, though I was less impressed with the quantity of laundry he managed to bring with him.  However, it meant we were without a working machine for nearly two weeks.    He has now disappeared back up to Abertay to do some exams, I believe, after fitting a computer that was purchased courtesy of my credit card, that looks identical to the previous one, and that apparently runs much faster.  I’m not that bothered, provided it goes on the internet when I want it to and allows me to write my blog, but even that was a trial.  I worry slightly about what George is doing up in Abertay; now that his leg is out of plaster, he’s joined a society that indulges in a wide variety of dangerous sports and stunts, so it probably won’t be long before he’s back in plaster and then he’ll do even less work.  Still, I suppose it’s a mother’s lot to worry.  At least Celeste seems to have some sort of work ethic.

However, back in the village, which is what you’re really interested in.  Verity phoned me on the Tuesday after the wedding, to tell me she was staying at her mum’s until further notice.

“And you can tell that ratbag that I’ve programmed the phone to block calls from his mobile and his work number, so he needn’t bother calling.”

I assumed she was talking about Max and told her that he appeared to have moved out; no-one had seen him, and I had been popping in on Hedonism just in case, especially since there didn’t seem to be any sign of human life.  Verity just harrumphed.  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”  I could almost hear her lifting her chin and sticking her nose in the air as she said it.  Even so, nothing I could say had any effect on her, not even the charitable do in the village that she was helping to organise, she’s staying with Ronnie for now.  “I’ve rather gone off village parties.”

I suppose I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way.  It’s quite different with the other victim.  The Famous Writer, or Joe as he has now asked me to call him, has been seen moping about the village, going to buy his newspaper from the post office and totally failing to make eye contact with anyone.  He’s a very distinctive sight, because he’s writing something set in Georgian England and consequently dresses in a frock coat and plus fours.  It’s been warm enough that he doesn’t need tights at the moment, thank goodness.  At least it makes the cars slow down.

You may wonder how I know the background to this, but the hot weather has brought out a less than desirable odour as someone’s septic tank has been leaking, or needs draining, or something.  Suffice to say, it led me to wander round the village sniffing the air like a mad weather-woman, trying to identify the source.  I didn’t find it, though I did think for a while that it was Reed House, and knocked on the door.  Joe answered and somewhat to my surprise, given my quest, invited me in for a coffee.

“I was taking a break anyway,” he told me, “and it’s always more pleasant to take a break with someone.”  He sighed and his eyes got that misty faraway look in them that film-makers always use when they’re trying to tug on your heart-strings.  I guessed he was thinking about the Famous Journalist so I thought I’d try to change the subject.

“And how’s the renovation of the house going?”

“That’s Alison’s project.  She deals with the builders and the decorators.  She’ll be back at the weekend.  I think she’s in Japan now for some economic discussion about the fallout from the tsunami.  No pun intended.”  He stirred his coffee rather vigorously and turned to offer me a shortbread biscuit.  “Are you a dunker?”

I declined, still trying to detox on biscuits, but he seemed quite happy to talk about his wife, who it turns out regularly engages in brief extra-marital ‘things’ (apparently they’re too brief to warrant the term ‘relationship’).  I felt a little awkward but it seemed to help.  Then abruptly at 10.59 by the cooker clock, Joe appeared to change gear mentally, politely escorted me to the door and invited me round another time, as he had to get on.

“Half ten in the morning if you want coffee, 6.30 for a sherry,” he told me.  “I have a strict writing regime and an even stricter publisher.  But within those limits, you’re very welcome.”

He clearly has a stricter writing regime than I do.  Because Verity wasn’t around, I didn’t feel able to go to the poetry group on Monday, and after going shopping on Tuesday, came home to a message on 1571 asking where I’d been.  I was surprised they noticed but I suppose in a small village, it’s sometimes harder not to notice things.  I have been given details of the next meeting and instructed to bring a poem by someone else if I haven’t finished my own poem.  We shall see.

Wedding Vows

It’s been an eventful couple of days, and I know for a fact that the dust hasn’t settled yet.  In the interests of my readers, however, I will tell you the Story So Far.

Our garden-rather-than-street party got off to a good start, and rather early for a bank holiday, notwithstanding the number of dog walkers in the village.  A marquee had been put up so that the British weather could do what it liked and it wouldn’t matter, though in the event we might have been better off without one.  Anyway, more of that later.

There were a lot of people there.  The OH and I arrived around 10.30 so that I could see the Queen arrive as well as the actual wedding (I’m a bit of a monarchist, though not to the extent of standing for the national anthem) and the champagne and beer were already flowing.  The OH had insisted on bringing a bottle of wine in spite of the fact that drinks were apparently included and judging by the state of the table on which he placed it, he was not the only one.    Someone turned the volume up so that we could hear the commentary on the TV and be warned when it was time to face the screen, for the benefit of those who were really only there for the beer.  The moment Kate stepped out of the car, there was bickering.  Two young women (I hesitate to call them ladies), whose names I discovered in the course of things were Sharon and Vicky, began discussing the dress.  Well, Sharon thought she was discussing it but clearly Vicky disagreed with her.

“Cor, look at all that lace.  Is that Chantilly lace, like in the song?” was Sharon’s first contribution.

“Nah, that’s embroidery anglaise that is,” Vicky told her.

“No it’s never,” Sharon replied.  “You wouldn’t recognise embroidery anglaise if it leapt out and bit you on the arse.  You even got kicked out of fabric tech at school ‘cos you couldn’t thread a needle.” At which she cackled.

This response was not appropriate, from Vicky’s point of view.  “How would you know? The only needles you have anything to do with are your junkie boyfriends’ needles.”  (I’m assuming the criticism was of more than one boyfriend, but if either Vicky or Sharon would like to correct me once they’ve been released from custody, just leave a comment at the end of the entry.)

“I only had one boyfriend who ever did drugs and that was just coke.  I’d have to be as stupid as you to get involved with a crack-addict.” 

The end of Sharon’s riposte was almost lost in the general shushing from the rest of the audience who for some reason wanted to hear what the commentators were saying.  Consequently, I missed the next few comments, but we were all able to hear the high point of the argument, as a table covered with bowls of apple sauce and peanuts crashed to ground under the combined weights of Sharon and Vicky, Vicky’s fist grappling with Sharon’s jaw, while Sharon’s knee was clearly working away at Vicky’s groin and her hands were trying to rip either clothes or hair from her assailant.  A few friends tried to separate the two of them as they thrashed about in the increasingly sticky mess but it wasn’t until a resident ,who it later transpired was an off-duty policeman ,grabbed Vicky by the scruff of her neck and physically lifted her away from Sharon that the fight stopped, even temporarily. 

“Lay off, you two, or I’ll go back on duty,” he warned them.

Sharon stood up rather shakily, rubbing her jaw and sulkily appeared to agree to stop the fight and Vicky manhandled the policeman’s hand from her clothing and took a step back.  We were just about to turn and continue watching the wedding when she very noisily spat in Sharon’s direction and muttered ‘tramp’ loudly enough for all of us to hear, so Sharon definitely would have done.  This was of course sufficient to begin the fight again, along with accusations of two-timing, thieving, drug-dealing and various other misdemeanours.  All of this was too much for Chris, the policeman, so after detailing a few of the bigger men, including the Famous Writer who had been attending the party with his wife the Famous Journalist, to restrain and separate the two women, he headed off to call for back up.  Which duly arrived and carted the two off for further questioning, but not until after the happy couple had left the church, so it was a rather disturbed ceremony from our point of view.

All of which would be more than enough for one village event, you might have thought, but too much alcohol early in the day in our village is just asking for trouble.  I’d noticed the Famous Journalist when we first arrived, making disparaging remarks about ‘locals’ and dripping contempt, until you just knew that she was going to write an incredibly patronising piece about local yokels and the state of education.  When the fight was being brought under control and the Famous Writer was one of those briefed to prevent Sharon from attacking either Vicky or the pig roast, I was vaguely aware that the Famous Journalist was no longer in sight, but I didn’t really think much of it after the carriage had driven away and we were starting to think about refilling glasses for a further toast.  Verity was late arriving – as usual – teetering on her high heels across the patio and gritting her teeth every time the heel disappeared into the gap between the slabs, and she headed towards me.

“Have you seen Max anywhere?” she asked.  “We’ve got an important lunch with one of the deputy lord lieutenants of the shire and I can’t find him.  He was going to give that journalist woman a couple of quotes before we went and now he’s just disappeared.”

I looked around the marquee with her, also failing to spot Max, but at the same time failing to spot the journalist.  “They’ve probably gone somewhere quieter for an interview,” I told her.  “There was a spot of bother here,” and I indicated the collapsed table.

“Oh,” Verity said, rather quietly for her.  “Good thinking.”  She teetered off in the direction of the house but she had only just got past the exit flap when I heard a scream from her, followed by what sounded like a slap.  Naturally we all listened.

“You bastard! First that Spanish bitch and now this! Well you can forget reconciliation this time, I want you and your things out of the house by the time I get back from lunch.” 

At which point either Verity or Max must have pulled too hard on some part of the marquee, because that side of it collapsed and we were all able to see Max, with a red cheek and the Famous Journalist with her blouse undone and her tights around her knees.  There was a collective gasp and the affected parties endeavoured to regain their dignity, without much success.  Max stood there initially and then started to follow Verity, pleading to her departing back, and the Famous Journalist pulled her tights back up, revealing a pair of extremely practical panties, and then turned away, buttoning her blouse as she went.    Most people started talking and refilling glasses once the spectacle was over, but I couldn’t help noticing the Famous Writer looking rather resigned to it all.

That was Friday.  The rest of the lunch passed in a rather boring fashion in comparison, but Verity has not been back yet.  I saw Max drive out of the village at around 3.30 as the OH and I walked back home; he was alone in his car but with a couple of his favourite paintings propped up on the back seat.  Whether he’ll be back or not is up to Verity, wherever she is.

Easter gone.

It seems I survived Easter, with some sitting in the garden, some chocolate and some roast lamb.  Not so bad without the children here after all.  It was quite quiet here in the village; I get the sense that a lot of people in addition to Delyth have taken advantage of the double bank-holiday weekend arrangement.  Verity popped in yesterday to see me on the way back from a trip to Amsterdam – she’s got something Important organised for Friday, so she had to be back.  She brought me back some Gouda, bought when she was inadvertently caught up in a trip to a cheese farm.  “The smell was unbelievable, but I felt so sorry for all those little Dutch people, so I bought some cheese to make them happy.  None of them could even afford the clogs that were on sale.  You know, I didn’t see a single Dutch person wearing clogs!”

I decided not to bother telling her that nowadays they only wear clogs for the tourists and thanked her for the cheese.

“And while I’m here,” she added, “you really need to sort out your blog.  It’s getting quite confusing.  You make it sound as though we live in a circle of ramshackle huts!  My house is quite modern, it’s only six years old.  And Felicity in the Manor Lodge, her house may be old, but she’s had it completely refurbished.  She and Dennis are putting it forward for some TV programme.”

“What’s that got to do with my blog? Do you want me to mention the programme in it?”

Verity heaved a sigh.  She and I are good friends despite our differences but we are on completely different wavelengths.  She did explain, though.  It seems she thinks I haven’t described the village clearly enough and I haven’t been writing much about what’s been going on lately.  I suppose the second of those is true; once I stopped trying to write it every day, the urgency had gone slightly.

So I have promised Verity I will try harder to write about what’s going on in the village, even on a small scale.  You will hear all about our street party in a garden and how the local dominoes team is doing.  “It’s the minutiae that make it special,” she said.  In my opinion it can also be the relation of minutiae that bores the pants off people, but we’ll see.

The Empty Nest

I’m wondering about going away for Easter.  I already knew that George wasn’t going to be back because he’s doing some sort of internship in London and if he works on the bank holidays, they’ll actually pay him for those days.  But Celeste phoned last night to say that she’s going hiking in Switzerland with a flatmate and will send me some Swiss chocolate.  A generous thought, but I don’t really think I need any chocolate or Easter eggs if the children aren’t going to be here.

The OH was quite unfazed.  “Just so long as she doesn’t think we’re going to send her emergency funds in Switzerland,” he mumbled, and went back to watching the sport.  Darts, I think.  Though it sounded like football from the audience background noise.

There is plenty going on in the village over the next few weeks.  The school is running an Easter Egg Hunt, which they do every year.  I’ve never been to it, but I know it’s popular.  There’s a little slip put through the letterbox a couple of weeks beforehand asking for donations, so I always try to get a couple of decent size eggs and a pack of smaller individually wrapped ones.  The mums coordinate the collection of all donations a few days before the hunt, and then there’s a small charge to participate.  It’s a good fundraiser and gets the children outside for a couple of hours.  What they do when it rains, I’m not sure.  Hunt for eggs in their wellies, probably.  That is to say, they’ll wear wellies and go looking for the eggs in the usual places.  If they’re looking for eggs inside their actual wellies, they probably need a little more parental guidance.

The church will have the usual array of Easter services and any attempts to leave the village will then be dominated by the single file traffic using it as a cut-through, passing all the cars parked outside the church on the other side of the road and preventing anyone from going in the opposite direction.  The local farmer often opens one of his fields for people to use for parking for the church, but the churchgoers seem strangely reluctant to take advantage of this.  Whether he will or not this year remains to be seen.  The fields near the church seem to be full of lambs.  Maybe I could put some lambs into my April calendar poem.

Then there is The Wedding.  Delyth is not much of a monarchist and has spent most of her time grumbling about it, the expense, all the hype.  She’s talking of going on holiday so that she can avoid the worst of it. 

“Where will you go?” I asked her.

“I was thinking of Libya,” she replied, so straight-faced that I wasn’t sure initially if she was serious.  She must have realised my confusion, because she then added, “But my holiday insurance won’t cover it, so I thought I’d try Tunisia instead.  Anywhere, really, that doesn’t have a monarchy and won’t be going bananas over a weekday wedding.”

I wished her well but somehow I doubt she’ll escape it completely.  Back in 1981, the OH and I went to Ireland in the summer, to the bit that wasn’t part of the UK anymore.   In Killarney, on the day of Charles and Diana’s wedding, the streets were deserted.  We went into a shop that was being staffed by just one young woman, looking extremely gloomy.

“Where is everyone?” we asked.

“They’ve all gone down the TV rental shop to watch the wedding,” she told us.  “I picked the short straw so I had to stay here.  I’ll just have to watch the highlights later on the news.”

So much for republicanism.  Even the TV company had started broadcasting earlier in the day (this was before the days of 24 hour television) so that they could cover it.  So Delyth might get lucky in Tunisia, but probably only if she joins a camel caravan, and possibly not even then.

Here in the village, we’re not having a street party.  The paperwork required to get a street closed was too much trouble even for the owner of the house with the Union Flag outside, raised each morning and saluted while an old record blasts out from inside the house somewhere with a trumpet fanfare of some sort.  Instead, one of the Village Elders with a large garden offered to host a garden party if someone else does the organising.  So we’ll have the opportunity to sit in a marquee, eating a pig roast and drinking far too much beer and wine, and then toast the happy couple at the appropriate time.  I haven’t decided yet if I want to go.  It’s going to be odd having Easter without either of the children, though it seems I’m going to have to get used to it.  The OH seems quite keen though, so I imagine we will be there, drinking champagne before lunchtime.  Probably in our wellies.

Sunshine at last!

After my last suggestion that the weather might be improving, Mother Nature took that as a hint to stop being so predictable and promptly turned to grey skies and rain.  And cold.  There were pyjamas to be seen in our house in the last few days.

However, today the sun shines again and spirits are cheered rather than drunk.  So I’ve been for a walk, and am now reporting back.

Firstly, I had to drop in on Deirdre, since several advertisers don’t seem to have realised yet that she’s taken back her newsletter duties and are still sending their cheques to me.  It might be easier to take them straight to the bank, but that’s in town and I have no intention of walking that far because I don’t trust Mother Nature.  Or my knees.  Deirdre was either not in or not answering her door still, because there was no answer, so I scribbled ‘Please tell them to write to you in future’ on one of the envelopes and then shoved the handful through her letterbox.  Whether she does or not, I will let you know.

Then I went for a wander round our little wood.  The hawthorn is busily doing its thing, brightening up the hedgerows with cloudbursts of white, and I might try to use it for inspiration for my poem – more of which later.  I also ran into Sylvia, who must be about 80 and yet seems fitter than me, probably in part due to the fact that she looks after elderly greyhounds and has to take them for regular walks, even if the sun isn’t shining.  She had just acquired a new resident so was keeping him on a tight leash as he sniffed at everything in sight.  I had to stand still while he checked me out too, but apparently I’ve passed the test, provided I don’t take Sylvia any biscuits with chocolate in, as apparently he has a real penchant for biscuits but the chocolate does him no favours.

Then it was down to the post office, to buy some stamps.  I should have gone last week before the price went up, but as ever, I didn’t need to post anything last week so I forgot.   It was quite busy with people holding e-bay parcels under their arms, ready for redistribution, and headphones on, doubtless listening to some motivational speech about making money from nothing.  Not a single person speaking! I didn’t recognise any of them, so perhaps they didn’t know each other either, but it was rather spooky and more like a hospital waiting area, but without the smell of disinfectant.

After posting the birthday card to my god-daughter in Leeds, I headed home, because as I mentioned, I have a poem to write.  Verity took me along to the meeting on Monday, and somewhat to my surprise, it was in the village.  For some reason, I’d thought it was going to be in town, but although there were some people from town there, about half the group live in walking distance.  Obviously, I didn’t have anything to share this time, but the other nine people had all brought something, a mixture of short and long poems, that they’d written on the subject of the royal wedding.  I’m quite glad I didn’t have to do that one, because I’m not sure yet what I’d say, but some of them were interesting and Verity was right, they didn’t all rhyme.  I won’t comment here on Verity’s poem but it was more about the dress than the wedding.  I can’t remember all the names, but an Elizabeth who lives only a few doors down is hosting the next meeting, at the beginning of May.  By which time, I need to try and write a calendar poem.  Something about April, in eight lines.  It doesn’t sound very many, but my attempts so far have been dominated by April Showers which even I realise is a little cliché.