Having tried and failed to avoid having to provide free entertainment at the birthday party Jody and Ian are throwing for their two-year-old daughter Molly, V and me are en route to East Anglia. As ever, V is driving while I navigate.
That is to say, we're lost. You join us as we take stock of our progress in a small layby on the outer fringes of nowhere. Across the road is a dismal-looking pub sporting around 14,000 miniature flags of St George and a blackboard bearing the welcoming message 'NO CHANGE GIVEN FOR BUS SWITCH NOT TAKEN'.
Lost we may be, but we are certainly in East Anglia. Lips a-pursed, V holds out her hand for the map. I hand it over. There’s little point resisting.
“The map must be out of date,” I plead as she runs a finger up and down the sheet, tracing the route we possibly should have taken. “That big road back there looks like it continues straight on. It’s not clear that we were meant to veer left on to the narrow, winding road.”
“Yeah sweetheart,” says V, flatly. “The thing is that this is an Ordnance Survey map.”
I have dared, like a fool, to challenge the orthodoxy of the Ordnance Survey. If the OS was a religion, V would be its chief apostle - the High Archdeaconess of the Landrangers. So it goes without saying that I am wrong and the map is correct.
Also, the fact that I have opted to limit my lifetime carbon footprint by failing my driving test three times means that in V’s unstated opinion, I lack the credentials to question the accuracy of The Map.
A barrel-shaped man appears comes out of the pub. He stops dead, puts his hands on this brown cordoruoy-clad hips and stares hard at us. If only I had removed the 'Up From London - Please Intimidate' sticker I put on the windscreen before we set off this morning.
"There's a man staring at us," I tell V. "He has the biggest sideburns I've ever seen."
V peers out my window at the man, silently hands the map to me and gets out of the car.
"Help you?" I hear her shout at the bloke. He snorts, shrugs his shoulders and plods inside the pub.
"Rural twat," says V, clambering into the driving seat.
Soon enough, we’re back on the move, travelling back the way we came, then left at the sinister looking cattery, then down a very narrow, winding lane. Despite finding ourselves stuck behind tractors, caravans and various barn-sized 4x4s, our progress is not slowed sufficiently for us to miss the party. In no time, we are rollicking up the bumpy, muddy lane that leads to Jody and Ian’s new 'downsized' life in the hamlet of Dunwell.
As V brings the car to a halt beside a random piece of rusting agricultural machinery, Jody comes rushing out of the large and rather foreboding farmhouse. It has nine windows at the front and looks like it was last used as a location for an episode of Hammer House of Horror.
“Hey Jody. Love the house!” I say as I step out of the car into a pile of bullshit.
“The entertainers are here!” Jody screams, gathering V into a crushing embrace and smothering her with kisses.
Jody, who is dressed in what can only be described as a ballgown, leads us into the house through a set of large storm doors.
"Quick tour?" she asks brightly.
"Lead on, Lady Muck," replies V.
The house smells a bit damp ("pastoral earthiness," according to Jody), but I have to admit, grudgingly, that it does have potential, with its high ceilings, large rooms, intricate cornicing and whitewashed wooden floors. Battered and chipped pieces of junkshop furniture are positioned here and there, presumably before Jody and Ian get some new furniture. Exposed brickwork can be seen through gashes in the bare plaster walls.
Jody sits us down in the front room on a distressed leather sofa the size of our flat. Next to the fireplace is an Edwardian rocking horse with three legs. I half expect to look over and see a ghost riding it.
"So, when are you going to tackle the decorating?" I ask.
"We have decorated. This is it," replies Jody, looking annoyed.
"The distressed look," says V with a knowing nod. "I actually really like it."
Use of the word 'actually' is a bit of a giveaway, but Jody pretends not to notice.
"Yes. Joy! are doing a spread on it next month," she says, pointedly.
"There's so much space," says V. "And lots of bedrooms. Thinking of squeezing another sprog out?"
"Ha! It must be your turn, no?" says Jody. The comment hangs in the air as she slinks off to the kitchen. V crosses her legs and raises an eyebrow at me. I go over to the fire and stare into the flames.
Jody reappears with tea, biscuits, Ian and Molly. Molly is dressed like a Victorian fairy. Ian is wearing a heavily-stained apron and is carrying a bloodied meat cleaver, giving the whole scene a ‘Witchfinder General’ feel.
“’Ow do my lovers!” says Ian way of greeting, grabbing my hand and for some reason winking like a pirate.
“We’re good!” I say. “What’s that on your apron?”
“This? Ah, just been butchering a whole pig. It’s for the show.”
At a time when our televisions are distressingly short of celebrity chefs, Ian has made the leap from the kitchen to the silver screen. He is currently filming the first series of The Gould Life for a cable channel. The name of the channel escapes me, but I am confident that it contains some or all of the words 'style,' 'food' and 'nosh', and possibly an exclamation mark, though a question mark would be more fitting.
“Wow,” I say. “I always thought pork just came in shrink-wrapped portions.”
"Tch, townies," replies Ian. “No, you have to butcher the animals first. The crew’s here filming it as we speak - you can come and watch if you like. And they’re gonna hang around and do Molly’s party as well. Exciting stuff eh?”
“Brilliant!”
“So your clown show had better be a good ‘un cos it’s gonna be on the telly!”
“Brilliant!”
Molly is at a stage in life where she gets very excited about things without quite grasping what they are. It’s a bit like when V shakes me awake at 5.30am to tell me she has finally worked out what our friends Candy and Glen see in each other.
V is bouncing Molly up and down on her lap.
“Is it your party today little Mollykins?” she asks of the toddler.
Molly grins and hides behind her chubby hands. Jody looks at V, then Molly, then gives me the isn't she great with children look.
“Are you a super grown-up girly-wirly?” asks V.
“I sure am!” interjects Jody, flattening her gown and snorting with laughter.
Molly looks to Jody and gurgles, then turns and pokes V in the eye. V laughs indulgently. There’s a lot of indulgence going on. The kind of indulgence I would be denied if I were to poke V in the eye.
“Are you gonna get lots and lots of pwesents Molly dolly?” continues V.
Molly manages a “YES!” and is promptly sick down V’s top. V laughs it off and pulls a ‘what can one do?’ comedy face. Such is the power of cute.
“Want to come and have a look at the slaughtered animal then?” Ian asks me, ablaze with testosterone.
“Yeah, okay,” I reply nonchalantly. You've seen one still-warm carcass being ripped apart, you've seen them all.
“No wait!” says Jody, before we get a chance to leave the room. “You know what I’d like to see?”
“What?” says Ian.
“I’d like to see V in her clown costume!”
“I need to alter mine a bit before I put it on,” lies V. “But his fits perfectly.”
“YES!” shouts Molly. Jody and V grin at me.
“But I want to have a look at Ian’s slaughtered pig,” I protest.
“I’ll show you where to get changed buddy boy,” says Ian, slapping me manfully on the back.
Somehow, I just know that events will conspire against me this weekend.
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