A knock on my front-door this morning heralded the arrival in this little community of ours, of royal wedding fervour.
The representative of the Pimmsley Parish Council is none other than Her-Poshliness from thither mansion, who moved into the village last year looking, initially at least, both sophisticated and enigmatic and promptly lost her frigging mind.
She is now, according to the blackberry-vine, chairwoman of this, president of that and the brains behind all things ‘villagey’. The fact that she is often the only one that ever seems to turn up to her ‘events’ doesn’t appear to deter her at all and with skin that an aging White-Rhino would be proud of, can be found, from sunrise to sunset, marching around the peaceful lanes of Pimmsley pushing a futuristic buggy, clutching a clip-board and shouting into an ear-piece.
I, she informed me, have been put in charge of salad and bunting for the street-party that is happening right outside my front door on Friday.
Before I had a chance to ask the obvious question, (what the hell is bunting?) and with a mouth that was smiling but eyes that definitely weren’t, she menacingly voiced her concerns that, unlike all of my other cowering neighbours, she had been unable to chivvy me out until this late stage in the planning schedule.
I didn’t like to tell her that the reason for this is because, ever since I heard muted rumours from Annabelle about the possibility of my having to spend the 29th pretending to be remotely interested in whatever it is that Bill and Kat are up to, I have been entering and exiting the house both under the cover of darkness and via my back window.
My royal wedding plans, like I should imagine most normal people, include lying on the sofa, drinking Magners, watching a box-set of The Sopranos and shouting at the kids to get out of the way of the TV.
Apparently, in order to appear both sociable, patriotic and a part of the Big Society, I’m going to need to head off to the shops and return laden with cucumbers, tomatoes and as much Royal-Wedding-Tat as I can carry.
All I can say is, not on my watch lady.
A ‘Code One’ is for when we are avoiding the bailiffs but since Her-Poshliness isn’t yet threatening removal of our goods as a sanction for non-attendance, I think we can leave the Taser gun where it is.