Red with shame, thanks to my Kleptomaniac Toddler

The past week has been an endless succession of meetings with builders, plumbers and electricians, as we prepare to start renovating our new home, a rambling 17th Century Farm House, which has been in Jasper's family for generations.

While it's a tremendously exciting prospect, it's a daunting task. I have already skipped up the stairs to the first of the six bedrooms, brandishing a wall paper scraper and attacking the woodchip with gusto, only to tear a huge crumbling chunk of plaster from the wall, out of which spewed horse hair, dirt, sand and earth. I stared dismally at the small pile of rubble by my feet and realised that i had a opened a can of worms; being bloody minded has its uses though, and I grimly resolved to complete the task in hand.

Eight days and about a hundred gallons of water in the steamer later, I have finally finished, although if i ever see another piece of wood chip wall paper again, i shall scream. The builders were gratifyingly impressed with my handi work, and also commended me for my use of a sledge hammer, with which i single handedly demolished the fifties hearth, to expose a cavernous inglenook fireplace, perfect for curling up next to with a glass of red wine during the cold winter evenings.

They are a nice lot, the builders. I make them cakes and shortbread every day, and always ensure that they help themselves to tea. They were visibly surprised when i presented them with the first lemon sponge.

"Blimey!" Kevin exclaimed. "We didn't even get a cup of tea on our last job"

I looked appalled.

Gary agreed , shaking his head. "We were there six months and the woman who owned the house never said hello to us once."

"How rude!" I said, thrusting a plate of shortbread at them and flicking the kettle on.

As I type this, they are demolishing the three foot wall dividing the current kitchen and dining room, to make one huge kitchen and living area, complete with the dark blue, 4 oven Aga that has haunted my dreams for the past ten years. I haven't actually called in there today. Jasper went down earlier with a banana loaf and some currant biscuits because I'm still too embarrassed to face them after yesterdays episode.

Lily and I had popped into the Doctor's to collect my Mother In Law's prescription. They were running late and we had quite a long wait , during which I idly flicked through back issues of Country Life, whilst Lily busied herself stuffing my hand bag with medical leaflets about how to improve your pelvic floor muscles/reduce the risk of heart attacks and recognise the symptoms of senile dementia.

Having finally signed for the prescription, we whizzed home to see how work was progressing in the farm house. The builders were having a tea break in the kitchen when we arrived; their eyes lit up at the sight of the plate of cheese straws and they were soon chomping away, emitting grunts of appreciation. They had almost eaten the lot when a tall man strode in brandishing a new S bend. I was just wishing that i had combed the plaster filled dredlocks out of my hair, when he introduced himself as "Eddie the Plumber".

Goodness, he was heavenly! A dark haired, broad shouldered vision of loveliness with wonderful Slav cheek bones and piercing blue eyes. He flashed a smile, revealing a perfect set of even white teeth.

Even Lily had abandoned Iggle Piggle and was gazing up at him with her mouth open.

I bustled off feeling rather flustered to make him a cup of tea, and returned to find him bending down talking nonsense to Lily, who was flirting shamelessly, staring coquettishly up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

"She's gorgeous." he smiled, as I handed him a mug.

Lily was searching for something to give to him; in the absence of a piece of cake or a carrot baton, she began delving into my enormous hand bag, which was full to bursting with toddler related paraphernalia. With a flourish and a chortle of triumph , she produced a shiny, crinkly pink package, which she handed to Eddie with a shy smile.

"Thankyou!" he exclaimed, affecting delight.

The smile froze on his face and I noticed a flush creeping up his neck. I peered closer at the object, and saw that he was clutching a Chlamydia Testing Kit.

"That's not mine!" I blurted.

Silence.

"No really." I squealed. "She must have put it in my bag when we were at the Doctor's."

Eddie looked like he's just swallowed a pigeon. The electrician walked out. I watched his shoulders shaking as he retreated. My face was blazing.

They all stared at me.

"For Goodness sake, i haven't got the bloody Clap!" I said huffily, going even redder.

Eddie handed me the offending item, which I stuffed unceremoniously in the bin

"Kids eh?" he said with a sympathetic smile.

I can hear the Dorset Gossip train building up a head of steam....

"Choo choo choo! Mrs Miller's got THE CLAP!! CHOOOO CHOOOO! "

Sigh.

A Country Affair

During a recent visit to the Hair Dresser, I was flicking through an old Tatler, when I came across an interview with Liz Hurley, in which she enthusiastically extolled the virtues of living in the Country.

She was pictured at her farm in the glorious Cotswold countryside, draped seductively over one of her Gloucester old spots wearing a Dior ball gown and a pair of diamond encrusted Manolo Blahnik stilettos. (Liz, not the Pig.)
"There's less sex in the city than there is in the country because it's just, well, sexier here..." she purred.
"When I close my eyes and think of England, I'm not in a fancy restaurant in Knightsbridge, but am lolling, scantily clad, in front of a roaring fire."


Having resided in both town and country, and witnessed first hand the behaviours and habits indigenous to both sets of dwellers, I am inclined to agree with her.
Country folk seem far more disposed to indulge in extra marital frolicks than urbanites. Or perhaps Townies have just as many affairs but don't get caught out.
The frantic pace of London life, combined with its abundance of easily accessible meeting places, afford its inhabitants a degree of obscurity, should they find themselves wishing to indulge in a spot of hanky panky.
As well as being favourable from a logistical point of view, there are a plethora of excuses and alibis with which to exonerate oneself, should suspicion be aroused by ones absence; late trains, tube strikes, meetings, traffic jams etc.
It's incredibly easy for a city philanderer to whisk his mistress off to a nearby hotel for an afternoon in the sack. For the country person however, the risks involved in conducting such impromptu trysts, are far greater.

It would be fool hardy in the extreme for Bob the Farmer to take his bit of stuff to any establishment within a 50 mile radius, for fear of recognition. The insidious web of rural life is all-entangling; the solid infrastructure of the Farming Community and it's endless social off shoots (Young Farmers, Agricultural Discussion Clubs, Hunt Skittles, Chutney Making Club) means that you "can't fart without someone knowing about it." (as my Father-in-Law is fond of saying.) Everyone knows someone who knows someone, and someone will be watching you even if you don't know it.
Should you be half-witted enough to check into a local hotel with your squeeze, you are sure to bump into your Gardener/Cleaning Lady/Post Man/Vicar, just as you emerge from a side door, flushed and dishevelled from your lustful romping. The dearth of "safe" meeting places, combined with fear of recognition, (and the subsequent scandalized chuntering of your fellow country folk) would dampen the most fervent ardour, and would explain why us Country Folk resort to meeting in hay barns, fields, ditches, down tracks, and even up trees.




Emma and Miles are great friends of ours, who live on a 2000 acre sheep farm in Rannoch, Scotland, which they recently took over from Miles' Father.
They met at our Wedding, where Emma was Bridesmaid (we met at School) , and Miles was Jasper's Best Man. Apart from being fantastic fun and highly entertaining company, Emma is beautiful, and charming with such an irrepresibly jolly nature that it's impossible not to love her.
Miles is kind, loveable, slightly shambolic and highly eccentric - a most endearing fellow. He is the epitome of genteel penury; his elbows protrude from his cashmere pull overs and his Jermyn Street cords are held up with baler twine. He scratches his head a lot, and is prone to stopping talking mid-sentence, and gazing vaguely into the distance.

Be warned though! His dreamy countenance and bumbling manner, conceal an insatiable libido and the sexual appetite of a rutting rhino. In the 12 months preceding his marriage to Emma, he appeared to be suffering from a surfeit of testosterone which manifested itself in the form of a prolonged spell of frenzied fornicating with any willing female to cross his path. He couldn't help himself.
Emma would always know when a confession was imminent, because he would shuffle in, hanging his head, and clutching a bottle of her favourite Chanel No 5 . Her merry nature and stoic optimism was tested to the limit by his repeated transgressions. So grave were her reservations, that she almost called off the Wedding, but her faith was rewarded. He walked out of the Church a new man, bursting with pride, and so besotted with his radiant bride that he didn't even ogle the bridesmaids. His lustful tendencies are strictly confined to the marital bed, and notwithstanding an unfortunate (and apparently incurable) habit of making pelvic thrusting motions when in the company of attractive females, he has been a doting and faithful Husband. Until this Spring....

Last January, Emma and Miles refurbished the annexe that adjoins their farmhouse, and took on a lodger, a thoroughly nice chap called Hugo who has just graduated from RAC and landed a plum job at Savills in Bedminster.
He has proved to be a model tenant. Quiet, courteous and obliging; he is happy to turn the horses out on a Sunday morning if Emma and Miles are hung over after a party. He is chronically shy, and prefers to keep himself to himself. Emma's attempts to find him a girlfriend have been in vain; she invited him to supper once along with the lovely girl groom from the neighbouring estate. Having met her on several occasions and found her a quiet and gentle soul , she was convinced that she had found Hugo's future wife. As it transpired, her saintly demeanour was just a foil; she tottered through the front door three quarters of an hour late on a pair of vertiginous red stilettos, tugging ineffectually at her pelmet sized mini skirt, from which protruded a pair of sparrow legs mottled blue with cold.

She downed the proffered champagne, pulled a face and requested "Voddy", which she proceeded to guzzle as though her life depended on it. During the starter, she yanked her boob tube down to display a unicorn tatooed on her left breast. Poor Hugo almost choked on his lobster; his terrified expression elicited a scornful cackle from his meretricious neighbour, who promptly declared him a "stiff" and suggested that a rigorous session of fornicating would "loosen him up a bit."

By the time the Port went round, he was deathly pale despite the proximity of the blazing log fire. A quick look under the table confirmed Emma's suspicions. Zany was clearly practised at multi tasking; groping at Hugo's crotch with one hand , whilst emptying port down her throat with the other.
"Well, it's been a lovely evening, but I think I'm ready to call it a night." Emma trilled with a gracious smile.
"It's only 10 0 clock! We 'aven't even done any Jaegerbombs!" Zany squawked in protest.
Emma took her home in the land rover. By the time she returned, Hugo had beaten a hasty retreat to the annexe and bolted the door. Next morning, she caught him just as he was leaving for work and apologised for her appalling mis-judgement.

"I'm so sorry Hugo. I've only ever seen her when she's out on the horses and she looked so nice, and quiet."
"It's always the quiet ones. " he replied with a grim smile, and drove off. He has declined all subsequent dinner invitations, and rarely socialises after work. With his Land Agent exams fast approaching he has been studying late into the night and is rarely seen during the day, so Emma was surprised and pleased when he knocked timidly on the kitchen door one Saturday morning.

"Come on in!" she beamed, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.
."Erm, I just wondered if I could have a word." he replied, looking awkward.
"Of course. Would you like a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich?"
"No thankyou." he mumbled, perching stiffly on the edge of the chair. She noticed he was chewing his lower lip.
"Are you alright?" she asked, putting down the saucepan and looking at him with concern.
He nodded his head and stared at the floor, refusing to meet her gaze."What's the matter? Is the boiler playing up again? "
Hugo shook his head.

"Come on, whatever it is TELL ME. We can fix it in no time." she told him kindly, putting some toast and jam in front of him. He glanced up at her with an agonized expression, and flushed.

"It's nothing to do with the annexe."

"Well what is it then?"

"It's rather delicate you see. It's about you and Miles."

"What about me and Miles?" Emma frowned.

"Oh God." Hugo said, shaking his head.

"For heavens sake Hugo, tell me what's bothering you!" Emma cried in exasperation.

"It's your love-making! It's very noisy and it's keeping me awake at night!" he blurted out.

Emma stared at him for a second and started roaring with laughter.

"You great dolt! I thought it was something serious!" she hooted.

Hugo stared at her for a second, and then let out a high pitched titter of relief.

"I'm awfully sorry. I hate to mention it; it's just that all that banging makes it rather hard to concentrate you see. And if I don't get a good nights sleep, I can't function properly in the office."

"You don't need to explain. We're the ones who should be sorry." Emma chuckled, filling up the tea pot.

He grinned good naturedly and started buttering a piece of toast.

"I wouldn't mind normally. I don't mind the evenings so much because i can just turn the radio up a bit, but last Wednesday you went at it all night." he guffawed, turning bright pink at his own daring.

"Last Wednesday?" Emma repeated.

"Yes." Hugo continued gaily, smothering his toast with damson jam. "You really upped the ante. I thought the wall was going to come down at one point!"

Emma stared blankly at him before replying.

"I was in France last Wednesday."

They looked at each other. The colour drained from Hugo's face. His jaw dropped open in dismay, revealing a mouth full of claggy, half chewed toast.

At that moment, the back door opened and Miles came in amidst a flurry of snow, followed by Jade, a buxom 19 year old from the local agricultural college, whose placement was a live-in job on the farm to assist during the lambing season.

She put the kettle on the Aga, and cast a furtive look at Emma before slipping back outside and disappearing into the gloaming.

Hugo gave a strangled squawk as the penny dropped, and turned the same colour as his crushed strawberry corduroys. He pushed his chair back to make his escape, but Emma pushed him back down. "Stay where you are!" she hissed.

"Oh God." he whimpered.

Miles was humming to himself as he rummaged in the larder for the Marmite, blissfully unaware us of the mini drama unfolding behind his back. He sat down at the table, rubbing his hands and smiling cheerily, oblivious to Hugo's appalled expression and Emma's narrow eyed scrutiny.

"Hello old chap! How's the cramming going?" he boomed, pouring himself a cup of tea.

Hugo made a strangled noise and slumped lower in his chair, as though hoping to slide out of view beneath the table.

"Is breakfast ready?" he asked, spooning sugar into the tea.

"Of course darling. Right away." trilled Emma in a saccharine voice.

She put his plate down in front of him. He returned her indulgent smile and patted her on the bottom.

"You must be very hungry darling." she said silkily.

"I am." he agreed enthusiastically. "Absolutely starving."

"I'm sorry i wasn't here to cook your breakfast last week my love. I do feel very guilty about that, especially when you were so busy."

"Don't worry. I managed." Miles said generously as he chomped on a sausage.

Charlie slid a bit further down in his chair.

"You must have been hard at it."

Miles nodded. "Bloody hard work last week. I was up all night."

"I bet you were." Emma replied sweetly.

Miles speared a piece of black pudding and shoved it in whole.

"I am lucky to have such a wonderful Wifey!" he simpered at her.

"Have you been sleeping with the sheep hand?" she enquired casually as she shook some cornflakes into her bowl.

Miles dropped his knife and fork with a clatter and stared at her with an expression of hurt outrage.

"I beg your pardon! Poppet! ! How could you ask such a thing?!"

Emma regarded him steadily for a second or two.

"Have you been sleeping with the sheep hand?" she repeated.

"Of course i haven't! How could you think such a thing?!" he cried.

Emma glanced at Charlie whose eyebrows were now level with the table top.

"HAVE YOU BEEN SLEEPING WITH THE SHEEP HAND?!" she screamed.

"Yes." he squeaked, hanging his head in shame.

The sheep hand was duly sacked (no pun intended), and I am happy to report that despite Miles' crepuscular activities, he and Emma are very happy and have just celebrated their 6th Wedding anniversary. As Emma pointed out, One Bottle of Chanel No 5 in six years of marriage isn't too bad - is it?

Memoirs Of A Pony-Mad Teenager.

In 1992, I was a pony obsessed, fourteen year old Tom Boy, with an abhorrence of anything remotely girly, and an aversion to the opposite sex.
If it couldn't walk, trot and canter, i didn't want to know. I remember feeling utterly bereft as i watched my friends succumb to the insidious lures of their burgeoning adolescence; I would listen to them giggling about their latest crushes and feel as though they were talking in a different language. Why would anyone with a Pony want a Boy too? How could they possibly think about anything else besides passing their C test, going clear in the Cross Country and winning Camp Cup?
During a Road Safety rally, Jane and Tammy turned to me and asked which member of New Kids On The Block I "fancied". I stared blankly at their expectant faces and replied "None of them."
They looked at me in open mouthed disbelief.
"You must fancy one of them. What about Joey?" Tammy persisted, mock swooning in the saddle.
I looked at her in disgust. "I think they're all gross, even Joey actually." I said stiffly.
There was a silence. They gaped at me. I stared back defiantly.
"Are you frigid?" asked Jane. Tammy started giggling.
"No, I just don't fancy boys." i snapped.
"Maybe you're a lezzy! Do you fancy Helga?" she snorted, gesturing to our terrifyingly butch Instructor, who had recently been caught en flagrante with her gelatinous lady friend in a portaloo at the Hunt Ball.
"You're so funny!" i sighed witheringly at them. My attempt to turn and canter away looking elegantly dignified was scuppered by my notoriously greedy pony flattening his ears and refusing to stop stuffing his face with grass. After much hauling on the reins and ineffectual flailing of legs against his drum-like belly, we shuffled away at a ragged trot with their laughter ringing in my ears.
Despite their taunts, that Summer was one of the happiest of my life. I would make a picnic lunch in a rucksack, and slip out into the misty dawn to catch my pony. I remember the sound of his hoof beats as he cantered towards me across the dew drenched field, before wedging his head into the bucket of pony nuts. We'd wander for miles, exploring bridle paths, jumping over fallen logs, stopping to pick plump blackberries from the hedgerows, and swimming in the rivers.
It would be early evening by the time we hacked home along the narrow dusty lanes.
Our local horse show always fell on the day before Pony Club Camp. Having spent the day playing gymkhana games in the scorching heat, and gamefully attempting to persuade my reluctant mount to walk across sheets of plastic and jump over staw bales (he objected violently to both tasks and aimed a vicious kick at the Judge, prompting our elimination on safety grounds) I would proudly tie any rosettes to his browband and we would potter home through the lengthening shadows, dusty and weary, but profoundly happy.

Camp was the highlight of the Pony Club Calendar.
Seven whole days of living, breathing and dreaming horses is unadultered bliss for a Pony mad child, and I would count down the days in a state of giddy anticipation, organising and re-organising my grooming kit, polishing my tack, and sprucing up my pony. I had read the Manual Of Horsemanship three times from cover to cover by the light of a torch under my duvet, and was desperately hoping to pass my C test. My practical knowledge of rugs, bandages, tack, and feed was exemplary, and my riding teacher assured me that i should pass, "provided that bugger behaves in the ridden test."
Realising that our success depended almost entirely on my pony's conduct, I crept out to his stable the night before camp and bribed him with apples and carrots, in the hope that he would reciprocate my kindness by not bucking me off.
Before i went to sleep, i knelt beside my bed and said a Prayer.
"Dear God, please let me not fall off when i am doing my C test. If you let me pass, i will eat all my peas and give all my pocket money to charity until I'm fifteen. Amen."



By twelve noon the next day, we had arrived at Camp, settled ASBO in his stable and were pitching my 4 man tent. My Father was always conspicuous by his absence on these occasions. When asked in the morning whether he would come to help set up, he would mutter vaguely about having a tennis playing comittment and drift off, leaving my Mother to get on with it. Her beauty had a mesmeric effect on the surrounding males. She would barely have laid out the ground sheet before the Fathers would start appearing like wasps around a jam jar. Buoyed up by a few lunch time pints in the Fox And Hounds, they would abandon their own efforts, and descend upon my Mother, leaving their poe face wives standing clutching handfuls of tent pegs and propping up half erected canvases. (She always declined their offers of help graciously but firmly.)



A few hours later, I was pulling my jodpurs on in preparation for the afternoons Mounted service. This was a very formal and rather long winded affair, led by the local Vicar who addressed his mounted congregation from atop a giant hay stack. The previous year, ASBO had demonstrated his flagrant disregard for the solemnity of the occasion by emitting a loud volley of farts during the sermon, eliciting giggling fits all round and a rollicking from Mrs Tilly, the universally feared DC.
I had just buttoned up my hacking jacket when Tammy and Jane rushed into the tent, breathless with excitement. It transpired that they had spied A Boy on their way back from the pony lines, and a very Handsome Boy at that. Having said that, there were only five boys at Camp that year so it didn't really say much.
I resisted the urge to pull a face as they raved about his "floppy hair" and "gorgeous brown eyes." They had discovered that his name was Oscar and he went to Eton. I listened drily as they described him as "really fit" with a "sexy smile."
"FFWOOOAARRR!!" growled Tammy like a lecherous builder, and they both dissolved into giddy laughter.
"If we don't go, we'll miss the Service." I said in a bored voice.
"OOOhh! Sorr-eeeee! We were forgot you're frigid! " they tittered.
"Brrrrr! it must be cold being a fridge! Do you need a jumper?" scoffed Tammy.
I scowled at them and stomped off to the stables.

In the days that followed, I realised that I was the only girl at Camp who didn't have a thumping great crush on Oscar. There was, it seemed, a love sickness endemic and i was the only one with immunity. Maybe I was a lezzy, i thought to myself one day as i lazed in my hammock reading "Jill's Gymkhana" and half watching a horde of lissome teenagers following him to the pony lines.
Wherever he went, they were ten paces behind him, fawning, giggling, and fluttering their eyelashes. If he went to the loo, they would lurk outside and wait for him to emerge. They would squabble over who sat next to him at breakfast, lunch and tea. They would encircle him and eye him lasciviously as he groomed his pony. A couple of the more brazen ones offered to clean his tack and polish his boots.
I was surprised to note that whilst he was unfailingly courteous to his pursuers, he remained largely indifferent to their advances. Given that two of his admirers were outrageously pretty, I started to wonder if he wasn't a lezzy too.
By the fourth day he had a slightly hunted look about him and i started to realise how the fox feels when the hounds are closing in. The girls were becoming increasingly desperate in their attempts to attract his attention, and that evening, they ran him to ground in his caravan. He locked himself in whilst they hammered on the door and ordered him to come outside. They pressed their faces up against the windows like a bunch of starving Dickensian Waifs gazing hungrily at a suckling pig. When he drew the curtains in desperation, they set about rocking his caravan from side to side and cackling with laughter. One of them produced a tube of tooth paste and they daubed his windows with hearts and declarations of undying love. Milly was trying to prise the door open with a hoof pick, when the DC wobbled unsteadily around the corner on her bicycle, red in the face from too much port and screamed at them all to get back to bed. They squealed in horror and scampered off like bob tailed bunnies, and Oscar emerged looking shaken to survey the graffiti.
We awoke the next day to glorious sunshine. The traces of tooth paste were still visible on Oscar's bolt hole, and he didn't come into breakfast. There was a mutinous atmosphere, despite the beautiful weather. The girls knew that they were running out of time. Today was the last day. Tomorrow, Oscar would be gone and they wouldn't see him again until next year, although after this years experience, I very much doubted if he would ever attend a Pony Club Camp again.
The day passed uneventfully, until my glamorous 19 year old Sister turned up after lunch with her handsome boyfriend in tow, brandishing two bulging Threshers bags. The Ginger Beer that they had waved blithely under the District Commissioners nose, was actually 8 litres of Merry Down Cider smuggled in inside Decoy bottles; a simple but ingenious display of trickery which rendered us speechless with admiration.
Giddy with excitement, we hid our loot in our sleeping bags and planned to drink it after dark.
It was cross country schooling after lunch and I was trying in vain to saddle ASBO who had thus far thwarted my attempts by blowing himself up like a balloon so his girth wouldn't meet. The ride had already set off and I was starting to panic when a voice behind me asked "Can i help you with that?"
It was Oscar. I gawped at him. I must have looked as though i'd swallowed a pigeon.
"Um, Sorry. What? " I croaked.
"Your girth. Here, let me have a go." he said kindly. He stepped forward and grabbed the leathers. ASBO grunted, deflated like a balloon, then farted loudly. I went pink.
"Thankyou." I mumbled, shoving my hat on to hide my blushes.
"You're name's Jessica isn't it?" he smiled.
"Uh-huh." I said.
"I'm Oscar. "
"I know. Hhm hmm." I replied, inwardly squirming at my uninspiring response.
Why on earth did I care? He's only a silly boy after all....
"I must go or I'll be late. Thanks for your help." I mumbled, glancing up at him. He was quite tall, with tousled brown hair. His face was tanned and there was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He smiled; his teeth gleamed white in his brown face and as he pulled down the stirrup leather I noticed how his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong brown forearms.
Oooh.
I scrambled into the saddle and rode off feeling strangely light headed.
Later on that evening, when the sun had gone down and the Night Watch Man had done his final round, Tammy, Jane, Milly and I, seized our bottles of Merry Down and crept across the pitch black campsite to the Straw Barn. There was a moment of panic when someone swung a flashlight in our direction but we dived under a horsebox until the light had bobbed out of sight before continuing our treacherous journey. The others were already waiting for us and we opened the bottles, giggling madly, and started to drink.
By Midnight, we were feeling decidedly fuzzy around the edges and mindful that we had to take our C test the next day, we decided to go to bed. When we got back to our tent, Jane realised that we had left an empty cider bottle behind, so I doubled back to get it.
I was almost there when a figure stepped out from the shadowy barn. I froze and held my breath as the clouds parted and the moon lit up the clearing. It was Oscar.
We sat on a straw bale, breathing in the heady scent of baked earth and sweet hay, and listened to the horses moving in their stalls. There was a distant sound of raucous laughter from the main house accompanied by a succession of loud splashes. The Instructor's End Of Camp party had moved to the swimming pool. An Owl hooted in a nearby tree. I looked at Oscar. His face was a valley of hollows and curves in the phophorous light. He leant forward and kissed me.
It's a good thing that we were sitting down because my knees went all wobbly - and it wasn't the cider....

Parking Tickets.

I procured my first Penalty Charge Notice in 2002, for failing to pay and display in The Market Place Car Park in Kingsford.

I was only nipping into the Off-License for a bottle of Pimms and I didn't have 60p in change for the meter. Having glanced around to ensure that there were no Traffic Wardens loitering nearby, i decided to risk it. I was only going to be 5 minutes after all.

I returned less than 10 minutes later to find a Parking Fine attached to my Wind Screen - It wasn't placed discreetly in the bottom corner either; In a blatant gesture of smug triumph, the Warden had stuck it gleefully right in the middle to make sure everyone got an eyeful.

That'll be sixty pounds of your hard earned cash please! it gloated, as people walked past staring.

I ripped it off angrily and glared around the car park, but the Traffic Warden had vanished. I noticed that the ticket was issued only five minutes after i left the car, which seemed monstrously unfair. I wondered if the odious little twerp had been lurking in the undergrowth waiting to pounce. I glared at the bushes in front of the car and hissed a few insults, just in case, before driving home in a temper.

I recounted the incident to my friend Ben, whose blithe disregard for Parking Laws has resulted in numerous fines and a County Court Judgement. As a first time offender, i was fairly confident that a polite letter of explanation to the people at Dorset Parking Services, would grant me a pardon.

"I'll say that i had to go and get change for the meter." I said.

"No way Man, they won't buy it."

"Why not? It could be the truth for all they know."

Ben sighed wearily.

"You don't get it Jess - These people don't care about the truth - they just want your money. You know what i mean? They're not Beings Of Light like you and me." he countered wisely.

I stared at him while he twirled a dredlock.

"So you're telling me that there is absolutely nothing i can do or say to avoid paying this fine?" i snorted.

He shook his head. "You've got no chance of being let off it. Don't even bother writing a letter. They'll know it's bollocks."

East Dorset District Council

Filbury

Parsons Road

Kingsford

Dorset

DT9 8PU

Dear Miss Benson,

I write with reference to your letter dated 01/10/02, regarding an excess charge ticket.

I was indeed parked in The Market Place Car park in Kingsford on 15/08/02. I was collecting my very elderly Aunt from Safeways Supermarket. I was unable to use their car park due to insufficient space.

I usually park in a disabled bay on these occasions, since my dear Aunt suffers from Scoliosis (Curvature of the spine) and it facilitates her tremendously if my car is parked close to hand and she does not have to cross any roads.

I arrived at the Market Place Car Park and hobbled over to to the ticket machine as fast as my Gouty Toe would allow. There was quite a queue and I became very nervous about the time elapsing because my Aunt becomes very distressed if i am late collecting her, as i am sure you can appreciate. She likes to think she is independent, but she is really a frail old thing, and is easily frightened.

On one memorable occasion, i was five minutes late meeting her outside The Greyhound Public House, where she was waiting with her shopping bags. Her carer (who has since been sacked for repeatedly kicking the cat), had gone inside the greengrocers for some runner beans. Whilst she was making her purchase, a huge hound came along, stuck its head into my Aunt's wicker basket, and gobbled up 2lbs sausages and a kilo of tripe!

The poor old dear was in shock when i reached her and had to be revived with a few swigs of brandy from the owner of the pilfering hound. (I think he must have been a tramp - he was terribly scruffy.)

Since that fateful day, my Aunt has suffered a phobia of waiting on her own in a public place. Her carer was given her marching orders thank heavens. I never liked her. She stank of mothballs.

I only left my vehicle unattended for about three minutes without a ticket, and i know i was taking a liberty in doing so, but what other choice did i have dear girl?

Please, i implore you to understand my predicament.

Tomorrow i am going to Tarrant Millford to visit the chemist for some gout remedy and meet my friend Mavis. She is a dear friend. Her Husband fought in the War and won lots of medals. He passed on five years ago and Mavis breeds Budgerigars now. Her son lives in London.

Do you have a son? Where do you live? I like the way you can put green on your letter. I only have an old typewriter at my disposal!

This has caused me great worry. I haven't much money; just enough to afford bread and milk really. I simply haven't got £60 to give you. I could sell my Edith Piaf records but that would take too long, and then you will charge me £1000! Please help me. I know i did wrong and in the eyes of the Lord Thou Shalt Not Steal and I have already sinned against him.

I am a burden on my family so please don't ask them for the money or they will tut at me even more than they do already. Can I pay a little at a time? Maybe eight pence a week?

I work part time for the Red Cross but it's voluntary.

I am ashamed of what I have done and scared of what is going to happen to me.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Miller.

A week later, i received the following letter:

East Dorset District Council

Filbury

Parsons Road

Kingsford

DT9 8PU

Dear Mrs Miller,

Thank you for you letter dated 04/10/2002, regarding Penalty Charge Notice DSO1807564.

I am pleased to inform you that in this instance, I am willing to waive the £60 parking fine

However, I must point out that should you incur a penalty charge in the future, you are obliged to settle the debt, in full, within the allocated time, to avoid legal action.

Yours sincerely

Jane Benson (Miss)

Not On A School Night

I don't drink in the week, unless I happen to meet a certain friend of mine, whose anonymity I shall preserve. (Let's call her Caroline.)
We both love Red Wine. Lots of it. Our mutual appreciation for a nice, full bodied Rioja invariably results in a nasty hangover, and necessitates the consumption of an entire packet of Alka Seltzer the following day.
We start the night with good intentions. We invite Caroline and her boyfriend (let's call him Tom), for a Monday night Supper; an early supper, you understand. We don't drink on school nights!
Caroline phones from Tescos at Lunchtime to enquire whether she can bring anything for the meal.
I might ask her to pick up a garlic baguette or a bag of salad.
"Anything else? " she will say.
There is a loaded silence whilst we ponder the question, and i have a mental image of her standing in the booze aisle gazing lasciviously at the plethora of half price Wolf Blass.
"Um, I don't think so. There's a bottle of red in the cupboard if you and I fancy a glass."
I reply.
"Hmm, I might have a glass. Can't be late tonight though. We're both up early tomorrow."
I listen to a succession of noisy clinks from her end of the telephone. It sounds just like wine bottles being placed into a handbasket.
"Which aisle are you in now?" I ask slyly.
There is a pause.
"Fruit and veg." she says breezily.
"Ah, I see."
Clink, clunk, clink clink. A small but unmistakeable grunt of exertion escapes her as she lifts her basket and i listen to her puffing her way to the checkout.
We continue the charade, and I revel in the tacit mutual pretence of being grown up and responsible.
"I've got some fabulous home made Elderflower. We can make elderflower spritzers with fizzy water." I tell her enthusiastically.
"Yummy!" she replys obediently.
"See you later!" she trills. The last thing I hear before she hangs up is the thud thud thud of bottles being loaded onto the conveyor belt.


They arrive a couple of hours later.
I take the proffered bottle of Wolf Blass, and affect an expression of surprised pleasure.
"Oooh! Red wine! Do you fancy a glass....or would you prefer something soft?" I ask, gesturing to the strategically placed bottle of elderflower.
She frowns and bites her lip, as though in an agony of indecision. Wine or Elderflower? Golly, what a predicament!
"Go on then, you've twisted my arm." she says making a lunge for the wine bottle.
"Just a small glass though." she says firmly.
I return with with two Sophie Conran half pint buckets.
"We haven't got anything smaller i'm afraid." I fib.
As she uncorks the bottle, my olfactory senses are titivated by the velvety bouquet of ripe cranberries and redcurrants. My mouth starts to water.
She fills up the glasses, holds the empty bottle aloft and pretends to look shocked.
"Those glasses are enormous! " she exclaims shaking her head.
"I know - why would anyone make wine glasses that big?" i tut.
We raise our glasses.
We have perfected the art of consuming considerable quantities of wine whilst maintaining an outwardly respectable appearance of gentility; by sucking in quietly at the same time as you tilt your glass, you can ingest a surprising amount, whilst appearing as demure as a deb at her coming out ball.
When we have finished our half pint pail, I say something like "Well, we said we'd have a glass, and we've had it."
At this point Caroline frowns thoughtfully into middle distance like Miss Marple recalling a vitally important clue.
"I'm not sure, but there might be another bottle in the boot of my car." she murmurs, contriving to look doubtful.
We look at each other, pretending to weigh up the options.
"We could have one more glass. That would only be two glasses each." i say helpfully.
"Can we stay the night?" she asks.
"Of course." I reply.
"Okay. I'll go and get it from the car - if there is any in the car, that is." she continues, looking beadily at me. "There might not be any there at all. I might have imagined seeing it."
She returns five minutes later looking surprised.
"I found two bottles under the spare wheel!" she exclaims plonking them on the kitchen table and scratching her head.
"No way!" i gasp. We gawp at the bottles in amazement. Anyone would think she had just discovered a baby penguin in the glove compartment.


Five hours later, we are trying to make up the spare bed. Well, Caroline is trying to make up the spare bed. I am slumped in a chair, with one eye closed, watching her. She is shimmying around the spare room in vertiginous purple stilettos (courtesy of the fancy dress bag) tripping over the chiffon hem of my red sequin encrusted ball gown which I wore over ten years ago when i was a lissome 22 year old. A ritzy pink feather fascinator sits atop her head, and her arms are encased in white satin gloves.
I am dressed in a fluffy leopard print toga and a pink cow boy hat with a fur trim.


"PPffft! - Not working. S'not gunna fit." she titters, trying to shove the voluminous goose down duvet into the duvet cover.
" Help me please." she says.
"Gnnn." i reply, tottering over.
"That's not a duvet cover, it's a pillow case." i giggle.
"Is it?! Haha!"


In the morning, I am greeted by a note on the kitchen table.


"Dear Mrs Miller, thankyou for a splendid evening. I'm afraid I took the last two Alka Seltzer. You are a very bad influence.
Love C. X"

Lily's First Birthday (Part Two)

Twenty minutes later, we had herded the errant cows into a field and were welcoming the first guests. Lily was sitting on the lawn, looking delectable in a white Broderie Anglaise smock dress. Jasper's parents were the first to arrive, with Maud Stanford-Caldbeck, a delightful old aristocrat, who was great friends with Jasper's late maternal Grand Mother.
As teenagers, they rode to hounds together three times a week, their passion for Hunting equalled only by their love of partying. They were an illustrious duo, renowned for their stamina, both on and off horse back. They would Hunt until dark, and hack ten miles home to be welcomed by a hot bath, drawn by a faithful servant. Having reclined in the fragrant waters for at least an hour, and revived their weary limbs with several large whiskys , they would appear at the top of the sweeping staircase, encased in fabulous dresses and shimmering with jewels like birds of Paradise, before making their elegant descent to the drawing room for cocktails at seven.
The Chauffeur would duly despatch them to their destination, where their arrival would prompt a ripple of excitement amongst the guests. No party was complete without them.
Maud was a formidable card player. At one party, she challenged the Host (the local Master Of Fox Hounds) to a game of Poker. Bewitched by her dazzling beauty he accepted. During the course of a hand, emboldened by copious quantities of Brandy, he bet his finest Hunter, and lost.
Legend has it that Maud promptly kissed him on his blanching cheeks , thanked him for a splendid party and rode the horse home in the misty dawn.
Jasper's Grand Mother has long since died, but Maud still follows the Hounds in her car twice a week without fail, gloriously unimpeded by her failing eyesight and rapidly encroaching senility.
She tottered into the Garden, resplendent in diaphanous pink chiffon and engulfed me in a cloud of Chanel No 5.
"Hello darling girl! Happy Birthday!" she trilled, patting my hectic cheeks.
"Hello Justin!" she called to Jasper, waving at him with a girlish smile.
"Whose is that child?" she asked, peering at Lily over the rims of her spectacles.
"That's Lily. She's our daughter." said Jasper
"Good Lord! Is she really? Well aren't you dark horses!" she chuckled, settling down in a wicker chair.
Soon, the garden was full of Mummies and toddlers. Lily was enchanted to be surrounded by so many little people, and sat in the middle of the festivities clapping delightedly and chortling with glee.
Squeals of joy greeted the arrival of Tilly, her Labrador sized pony. Tor led her into the garden, her mane and tail woven with pink ribbons, and the children rushed over to pat her, wide eyed with excitement.
Tilly is normally as quiet as a lamb. She had spent the previous fortnight in a virtually bald paddock in order to reduce her rapidly expanding girth, and i was dismayed to note that her enforced starvation had adversely affected her temperament. She was possessed of a ravenous hunger, and was consequently more interested in consuming as much grass as possible, than being fussed over by a group of toddlers.
Observing the manic glint in her eye, the Mummies moved instinctively closer to their offspring. "It's alright. She's completely bombproof." i assured them.
Tilly flattened her ears at the outstretched hands and tried to walk underneath the table.
"Does it Hunt?" asked Maud eagerly, leaning forward in her chair, as Tilly scuttled sideways across the garden, swishing her tail angrily.
"Nice sort. I've always liked something with a bit of spirit." she remarked, sloshing the contents of a hip flask into her elderflower cordial.
I was in the kitchen taking the clingfilm off the plates of sandwiches, when I heard a blood curdling scream, and Tor rushed in.
"I need some ice - it's just trodden on Jonny's foot. And it bit my leg - little shit!" she said, pointing at the teeth marks on her upper thigh.
I ran out with a bag of frozen peas. My frantic apologies were drowned out by Jonny's howls of pain as his Mother pressed them onto his purple toes.
I looked grimly around for the pony. Maud was sitting clutching the lead rope. The demonic animal had walked round and round her, thus binding her legs with the rope and trussing her helplessly to the chair. She looked as though she were about to be dunked in the village pond. Unperturbed by her imprisonment, she took a blithe swig from her hip flask. Tilly flattened her ears and barged forwards. The chair lurched dangerously and teetered precariously on its back legs for a second before I rushed forward and unclipped the rope just in time to prevent Maud being dragged backwards across the garden.
"Reminds me of my old Hunter. Game little bugger." she said, rummaging for her cigarettes. Little Oscar stepped boldly forward proffering a carrot baton to the pony, and was plucked out of reach of darting teeth just in time.
"Get the bloody thing out of here before it kills someone!" muttered Tor as it glowered at the assembled toddlers and rolled its eyes.
"I'm trying." I hissed, crimson with shame as I tugged hopelessly on the lead rope.
"GO AWAY! GO AWAY!" screamed little Jonny, diving under the table in terror as i dragged the fiendish creature towards the gate.
The frosty faced Mummy's watched our shameful exit with reproachful eyes, whilst their frightened infants cowered behind them. Several of the were sobbing pitifully.
"I'm frightened Mummy! I want to go home!" wailed Olive, prompting a chorus of passionate agreement from the others.
"I'm so sorry." I squeaked. "She's normally lovely."
The Mummies looked on stony faced as the wretched animal knocked a serving platter off the table and proceeded to hoover up a mound of wholemeal penises, curling its lip in disgust when it encountered the marmite.
Jasper rushed out of the house wielding a broom and rammed it briskly up the back side a few times. This did the trick and she shot out of the garden like an exocet missile. I shut her in a stable and put my head in my hands. So much for a "fun" toddlers tea party. I had imagined the pony carrying a procession of infants around the garden, their cherubic faces alight with wonder, instead of which they had been menaced, trampled and bitten.
Tor met me on the driveway.
"I've given them all a glass of wine. I think they needed it. Jonny's mum asked for something stronger so i gave her a vodka and coke. Are you okay? You look a bit pale."
"I'm fine. " i replied with a brave smile. "What else can possibly go wrong?"
"You didn't know the pony was a Psycho. " she said kindly. "Come on , let's go and have a drink."
During our absence a few more friends had turned up and were chatting to the Mummies, unaware of the drama that had preceded their arrival.
I was relieved to note that the Mummies looked far more relaxed since the pony had been removed from the proceedings. Tor went round topping up the glasses, and Trevor, my old Spaniel, was enjoying the attentions of the children, who were gathered around him stroking his tummy, which is his favourite thing in the world. Bandit, Jasper's uncouth Spaniel, was busying about in search of food, tail wagging ten to the dozen as he grinned delightedly at everyone like a village idiot.
Just then, Will and Lara turned up with their dog Lola, a very pretty golden labrador bitch, who sashayed into the garden, eliciting a lustful gaze from Bandit, who stopped scavenging and strutted over to proposition her.
"Mummy, why is he licking her bum?" asked Daisy.
"Erm, they're making friends darling." said the Mummy, turning pink.
"Faint heart never won fair lady." Maud cackled, producing another hipflask.
"Get off her!" I shouted, dragging him away by the scruff of the neck as he attempted to mount her. He continued thrusting impotently at thin air as a dozen toddlers looked on with interest.
"What's that pink thing under his tummy Mummy?" asked three year old Iris.
"It's er....it's his lipstick darling."
"Duh! It's his willy stupid!" said five year old Frank in a scornful voice.
Iris glared at Frank. "Don't call my Mummy stupid." she said, poking him on the arm. Frank shook his head in disgust and walked off.
Iris looked up at her Mother beseechingly. "What's a willy Mummy?"
Mummy shot me a reproving look and I hurriedly shut the lecherous hound out of the garden, the second animal to be forcibly ejected on account of it's deplorable behaviour.
"Sorry!" I mumbled to the Mummys for the umpteenth time. If i ate much more humble pie i'd explode soon.
Next to arrive was Tom and Laura, with their dog Whiskey, who swaggered jauntily into the fray and made a bee line for Lola. Bandit thrust his face through the trellis and looked on furiously as Whiskey and Lola flirted audaciously with one another, right under his twitching nose. The sight of this young whippersnapper making advances on the lovely Lola, was too much for Bandit. There was a scrabbling noise as he appeared atop the garden fence, where he balanced for a second with a machiavellian grin, before launching himself on top of his rival with an enraged snarl. A dreadful fight ensued, as each male strove to assert his superiority over the other. The dogs howled and growled, teeth clashing and fur flying; toddlers screamed in terror while grown ups stumbled around idiotically screeching "STOP IT!" at the brawling pair. In the ensuing chaos, little Sam wet his pants with fright and eight new Sophie Conran glasses were knocked flying from the table and smashed to pieces on the patio.
Tor stopped the fight by smashing them over the head with a Ninky-Nonk train, temporarily dazing them and affording us valuable seconds in which to drag them away in opposite directions.
The stunned silence which followed was broken only by the whimpering sobs of the toddlers and the inane ramblings of Makka Pakka who had been propelled violently from the train and was lying face down in the grass, chanting "Makka Pakka Akka Wakka Mikka Makka Moo!"
"What's it saying?" demanded.
Trevor bustled over, grabbed Makka Pakka and trotted off round the side of the house looking pleased with himself, eliciting howls of rage from Billy, to whom the toys belonged. His sobs intensified when he discovered Iggle Piggles mutilated body in the train carriage - the force of the impact had decapitated him and snapped both legs off at the knee.
"I'm so sorry!" I said (again). I wanted to run away. Or be swallowed up by a hole in the ground.
"Thanks for a lovely party Jess. I'd better be making a move though." said Vanessa with a forced smile, as she prepared to leave. Realising that escape was imminent, the relief of the other mummys was almost palpable, as they hastily gathered up belongings, strapped traumatized infants into car seats and coaxed their terrified off-spring from the bushes.
With remarkably unfortunate timing, my friend Spike arrived as they were leaving. A highly eccentric and excitable character, he had decided to come to the evening party dressed as a Military Dictator; he marched into the garden wearing a fierce expression, and executed a series of military salutes at the assembled company who were all gawping at him with their mouths open.
"Good Evening!" he barked. "General Deviant at your service!" As he stamped his foot, the tassle on his fez quivered menacingly.
Several toddlers took one look at him and bolted back into the bushes.
Within five minutes, the garden was empty. Every guest had vanished at considerable speed down the driveway.
"I hope i didn't frighten them off. They left a bit suddenly." remarked Spike with a sinister smile.
Tor came round the corner frowning. "Tilly's broken out of the stable. "
The phone rang. "Hello?" I said wearily.
"Hello, it's Mrs Langford from next door. If you're wondering where your pony is, it's here terrorizing my caravanners."


No,no,no,no,noooooooooooo.

Lily's First Birthday.

Last night, we popped out to the pub for "a" drink at 7pm, and got home at 11.oop.m. It is the Story Of our Life.
I started out with good intentions, sipping virtuously on my (small) glass of white wine, and politely declined offers of another one. Then Lucy turned up, went inside, and came out with a LARGE glass of Pinot which she plonked in front of me - "If you're going to have a glass of wine, do it properly."
Ten minutes later, Kate and Ben arrived and bought a bottle.
"No thankyou, I only popped out for one." I said as Ben topped up the glasses.
"Haha! Very funny! " he chuckled, shaking his head and filling up my half pint bucket.
I listened to the glorious glugging sound as the the golden liquid sloshed into the glass. It would be churlish to refuse it now, i told myself. I would hate to hurt Ben's feelings by not drinking it after he had poured it especially for me.......



I awoke at 7am to the sound of rain hammering on the windows. I lay in bed, waiting for the dull throbbing in my head to subside before tottering downstairs for nurofen and tea. I sat in the rocking chair and looked out grumpily at the horizontal rain. The wind was buffeting the trees along the river bank and the horses were huddled against the hedge with their backs to the downpour. I looked hopefully at a chink of blue in the clouds, and willed the sun to break through the impenetrable grey, and incredibly, it did. By 9, the sun was shining from a clear blue sky and Lily and I went into the garden. She was enchanted by the rain drops sparkling on the cob webs, and pointed at them whilst trying to articulate her sense of wonder "Ooo. Oo. Uh."

Invigorated by a pint of Alka Seltzer and a bracingly cold shower, I started to prepare the food. I was surprised by how long it took to rustle up three varieties of sandwiches for a dozen toddlers. I was still at it half an hour before the party started.
Jasper came in and watched as i frantically buttered bread, applied fillings and and used an assortment of kiddies pastry cutters to form an aesthetically pleasing array of toddler sized yummies.
"What shapes are they suppose to be?" he frowned, pointing at a plate of wholemeal peanut butter.
"Houses." I muttered, glancing at the kitchen clock.
"They look like dicks."
I took a deep breath.
"Thanks for that constructive comment Jasper. Really helpful."
"Well they do. Look." he persisted, picking one up and shoving it under my nose.
I carried on buttering bread in dignified silence.
"Look at that bulging bit on the end." he tittered.
"It's a roof." i hissed through gritted teeth.
"Looks more like a - "
"That's quite enough thankyou." i interjected primly, straightening a doilie.
I glanced furtively at the plate and grimaced. Jasper was right. My carefully arranged display of appetising titbits resembled a platter of wholemeal penises, complete with firemans helmets.
I pursed my lips, and surreptitiously tried to squeeze their bulging "ends" into line, but they stubbornly resisted my attempts to mould them into less deviant shapes. Jasper sniggered as cream cheese oozed suggestively.
He opened a can of lager and watched as I arranged the various plates of sandwiches, cakes and shortbread on the kitchen table.
"Why are there two dozen pink balloons tied to the car roof?" he asked.
"Bugger - i'd forgotten about them. Can you tie them at the end of the drive?"
"Okay. You'd better go and get ready. They'll be here in 20 minutes." he said, popping a wholemeal penis into his mouth.
I looked up to see him wearing the bright pink Afro Clowns wig I had bought for him to amuse the toddlers. I rummaged in the kitchen drawer and handed him the red plastic nose. He stuck it on and admired the effect in the mirror. I shuddered. I have always found clowns rather terrifying.
Suddenly, the ground trembled almost imperceptibly beneath our feet, like the low rumble of distant thunder. We looked out at the clear blue sky and exchanged baffled glances. The next minute, a herd of cows charged past the kitchen window sending bantams flying in all directions and almost trampling a dozing Trevor, who scrambled out of the way just in time.
There must have been thirty of them. The sight of them stampeding across the back garden into my lovingly tended vegetable plot, rendered us speechless with shock for a few seconds. We could only stare dumbly as they cavorted around, flattening courgettes, obliterating runner beans and demolishing the cucumber frames.
I have only seen Jasper lose his temper twice in almost ten years of marriage. He is so placid, with such a huge capacity for tolerance, that his anger is truly terrible to behold. There is a dreadful incongruity about his fury; rather like watching the Andrex Puppy turn into a Rottweiler.
I cowered by the sink, awed by the force of his wrath, as he stormed out of the house, incandescent with rage. The air was blue as he effed and blinded his way through an epic diatribe, aimed at the "useless f***ing tosser" who owned the errant cows, and his chronic inability to keep them fenced in.
The cows skipped and mooed around the devastated vegetable garden with Bandit, Jasper's lunatic Springer Spaniel, snapping at their heels and compounding their excitement and panic. Jasper approached them from behind with a view to herding them back towards the drive. They bellowed with terror at the sight of this pink afroed, bulbous nosed monster, and surged forward in panic against the flimsy frame of the fruit cage. There was a crunch as the whole thing gave way and was kicked to splinters beneath their pounding feet.
"That's the end of my strawberries." I thought grimly as they charged back across the garden and disappeared over the grass bank.
I pulled on Jasper's wellies and rushed after them. If they got into the farm yard all hell would be let loose! I managed to beat them to the gate by the skin of my teeth. I waved my arms at them to drive them back towards the lane.
"SHOO! SHOO! Get out of here!" I shouted.
They stared at me and stamped their feet. The biggest one, presumably the ringleader, lowered his head and began pawing the ground.
"Go away." I squeaked.
Bloody hell, were they going to charge? I looked around desperately. i had nowhere to hide if they came at me and I couldn't run very fast in Jasper's wellies which I had just noticed were on the wrong feet. I flapped my hands at them without conviction. They advanced slowly. Uh-Oh.
I considered throwing myself into the slurry lagoon and wondered which was preferable; drowning in cow poo or being trampled to death by a herd of bullocks? There wasn't much in it, I decided. I was just about to kick off the boots and make a sprint through the knee deep poo, when i heard an engine roaring and Jasper, my Knight In Shining armour, came zooming across the farmyard in our silver Audi. There were a succession of ominous crunching sounds as the car bonnet see-sawed over the deep rutted trenches like a ship on a rough sea.
At that precise moment, a pair of elderly ramblers emerged from the bridleway. They watched open mouthed, as Jasper shot past them, ritzy pink wig askew, as he roared obscenities from the open window, and blared his horn like a psychotic clown, as two dozen sparkly pink balloons bobbed and danced merrily in his wake.
"Lovely day!" I trilled as I shuffled along behind him like the village idiot.
My heart sank as a car turned into the driveway. The first guest had arrived......