Recently we had the village harvest supper.
There is a sentence which would strike horror into the previous me.
I would worry (nay, fear) that what would come next was a bucolic lyric about charming village eccentrics and the heart-warming stories of a countryside thanking their god for a good harvest.
I will try, dear reader, to spare you the worst but feel free to go away and pour yourself something strong and read a Will Self novel.
Anyway, the harvest supper is linked (inexorably) to the church and is held in the village hall – well, I can hear you say, how interesting.
The village hall is in an area which has a lot of young families and working people – but no, the harvest supper is full of people even older than us, and a darn sight richer in most cases. I am pretty sure that few if any, of the immediate locals come.
There are a few young people there but they are dragged along by their parents and are more Bedales than local primary.
Still, and all, we have a good time.
Mostly because we have a great band – the village postman, his wife the postmistress, his sister, the Congregational pastor (or whatever they are called in the Congregational Church) and a bass player from the heady bohemian lights of Petersfield.
They are great, and the best beloved and I have a good dance.
Last year, feeling brave, we were the first up and left our friends behind at the table.
One of them was tapped on the shoulder by a village ‘elder’ who said sotto voce, “Just who are those people?”