Amatuer Dramatics

Just back from a very lovely meal in a pub run by a sort of a friend. I like it there, Collie Wobbles and Banana McFly (not their real names) are always invited along and are greeted with a doggie treat and scratches, the food is first class the locals are old bearded types who play dominos in front of the fire, a couple of studenty scruffs, a few smart horsey ladies with their terriers, the local dentist who is fairly young and attractive and a man who used to be a member of the clergy until he was defrocked for fiddling where he shouldn't have. I think he is now a plumber or electrician or something similar. Anyway, back to tonight, with the usual suspects installed. We order our meal, extract Banana McFly's nose from the student's pie, and get back into conversation when, from the next room we hear a wail, some shouting and then da da dee dum dum dum AND! "Feeeeed the wh-er-rlllld!" From some pit of hell a band strikes up and a crock of discordant Geldofs let rip their pleading whine. Jesu Cristi Maria. Never before has such an unnatural clatter of notes been warbled simultaneously. Dominos fell, priest were defrocked, pies, ones fluffy and transcendent collapsed into a thick morass of inky gravy. What in gods name was that?! demands the snappilly dressed dentist, whose misanthropic horror was, under the circumstances, not misplaced. Oh chirrups the waitress, its the local amateur dramatics society, they needed a room for practice. "Dooooo they nooo eets crisss-muhhhsss at aw- wlll!?!" well no they probably don't, but to be fair you deafening a few pub patrons on a Monday night isn't going to change that is it? I suppose thats the joy of insularity and amatuer dramatics though, you really can put all your gut wrenching emotion into your stomach turning performance, firmly believing you are feeding Africa when all you are actually doing is frightening the horses.
PS I hear tickets are on sale from next week!

The thing about the Country is, that despite all its wonderful quirks and romanticism, sometimes you just wish you were plugged into the bloomin' mains. For example, I write this from my bed, dressed in thermals, mens brushed cotton pyjamas, socks and fingerless gloves. When I exhale, dragon-like, it occurs to me that there is really very little difference in the temperature out "there" versus in "here". Bathtime, the last bastion of sanity after an evening of horse pooh and hail, was somewhat demystified by 4 or 5 trips between kitchen and bathroom with saucepans and kettles, and was reduced to a spine tingling , teeth clenching splash with a bar of imperial leather. In lieu of imminent arrival of a handsome Italian vet for example, one must immediately employ all tools at ones diposal. After a hunt for electric heaters proved fruitless I immeditaely began to mull plan B which would involve hauling the patio heater and bbq in doors, fire them up and retire to my bed, lulled into a lovely sleep by the cheering smell of charred sausages and sweet and sour chicken kebabs. Casting an eye over the 16th century beams, I decide I will defer my indoor barbeque for another night and implement plan C with involves the previously detailed love goddess outfit with the happy addition of Banana McFly (not her real name) who is already snoring, belly thrown to the stars, and Collie Wobbles who is desperately trying to get me involved in tennis ball hide and seek.... very cosy, very delicious, highly recommended.

Seabiscuit (not his real name *)

Apologies for this blog's silence but alas even I struggle to extract mirth from some circumstances and so while the last week's Battles took their toll, I thought it best to keep quiet. All that is in the past however and there are of course some vaguely amusing vignettes to report from the wilds.

So... when a 3 year old ex race horse with all his testosterone parts still attached comes to stay, it is best to keep your wits about you for at least two reasons. The first is that Seabiscuit , (not his real name *) whilst playing a game that lots of young horses like to play, called eating shoes and hats and jumpers still attached to the person wearing them, may in fact suddenly decide that he is in fact very pleased with himself. He may in fact be so pleased with himself that he will grab your loose fitting boys jumper and lift it clean over you chest just as the elderly neighbor comes up the drive to collect the fire wood you promised him. Most amusing for young horses and dare I say, elderly neighbors, less amusing for me. The second reason to keep an eye on said fine equine companion is that it seems race horses are Pavlovian in their responses to loud sharp noises. Bird scarers (boom) and guns (bang) all serve to send The Biscuit clean out of his imaginary starting stall and in a misguided nostalgia for a more glorious past, galloping down the straights. In all the excitement, he has the black labrador (Banana McFly*) and Collie Wobbles* (The border collie) in hot pursuit. Of course his gallops aren't straight and they aren't over a few furlongs and between him and his finish line stands a startled blog writer, wildly waving her fence mending kit in a desperate attempt to avoid a collision. I was imagining how I had narrowly survived The Battles only to be wiped out by 500kgs of testosterone tentatively held together by 4 spagetti legs and a fuzzy winter coat. The final bloody insult! Happily, Seabiscuit (not his real name *) being the consummate professional 3 year old ex race horse he is, puts in a death defying stop and casually leaned over for a victory kiss. A bit charming really...

(* Names have been changed to protect the identity, dignity and future career prospects of all the dogs and horses mentioned in this blog)

Other advice gleamed from a difficult week; when it all goes pear shaped, slight;y snooty ladies who own farm shops and slighty snooty ladies who own saddle shops are powerful and loyal allies. It is unclear how I managed to impress them but they have been solid and forthright supporters during The Battles - the dynamics of who is accepted and who not are still some what mysterious. I will investigate further and report back ...

I was most entertained to hear that some local churches were introducing "elf and safety" guidelines.  Well this could only be exciting.  Something along the lines of : a) Those entering the church yard at the witching time of night (midnight on) should take the necessary precautions.  These might include wearing a large crucifix and festooning ones person with garlands of garlic.  b) Open graves should be avoided at all costs.  c) Grave robbers, medical students and Danish princes are asked to replace any loose rubble and sharp objects in an orderly manner on completion of their midnight capers etc. 

But NO, instead there was some vile whining directive from the local parish council instructing mourners to only leave flowers in plastic vestibules and banning metal railings in case someone should impale themselves on it.   Surely the whole point about these places is that getting impaled and slumping dramatically  into an open grave is part of the fun? 

Amazingly these same redundant nihilists are completely unable to deal with the real blight of the countryside- the Old Age Pensioner on a "mobility vehicle"(MV) cruising down the main drag at a neck breaking 2 miles/hr.  This morning there was a three MV pile up going up Market Hill when one of the old dears failed to indicate and sidled into the road fractionally ahead two other coming along in convoy.  Chaos ensued. Flat caps flew,  baskets were overturned, little wheels churned fruitlessly in the chestnut leaves, the Constabulary was called.  Well I never, what a fuss,  and if it wasn't Margery Meaks I saw shaking her stick at the nice young officer. What a to-do.  what a to-do...

MV drivers are dangerous and arrogant road hogs.  Last week one of them found his way onto a 4 lane national motor way and excused himself by saying it was the best route to the library.

While the vulgar arrogance of youth culture is prevalent in cities and popular media, out here in the wilds, it is quite the opposite. Out here Ye Olde Riders of the MV reign supreme.  They know no boundaries, have no natural predator save time itself, and are free to run unchecked in their natural habitat.

Church yards at midnight have nothing on these terrors.... 

Giving Him Both Barrels

I don't know much about the Countryside and I know even less about dating in the Countryside but I am happy to report that the shooting season provides a delicious opportunity to free oneself from, shall we say, disappointing allegiances.  While said gentleman came well recommended in all other aspects (good fabric, good hair, good cheekbones etc), alas, this is a man who despite all other manly attributes requires at least six months basic instruction before being let anywhere near a loaded over-and-under.  Neither encouragement nor subtle instruction have aided him in the least.  He had to go, such a waste, such a waste.  Given his exemplary performance in all other areas of our dalliance I decided the kindest thing to do was to pretend to free him to his one true love, shooting. Alas I would miss him while he was away for all those weekends, no I couldn't possibly join him, I would be a drag, Drizabone coats don't suit my substantial bust etc.  Given that his desk was already groaning under the weight of invitations from Monador Blowforth Gass and Isabelle Wanton-Snatch he will find himself utterly torn for... well, no more than a couple of minutes and, after suitable protest and a display of sufficiently dejected puppy eyes he will in fact find himself utterly relieved.  As he turns to go he might find himself rather looking forward to the fact that he is free to spend the rest of the Winter fully focussed on giving those gorgeous birds a fine left-and -right.