The world from my window

This morning, as the rooks flew sideways, buffeted against the wind, I reflected on one of those very surreal weekends that seem to happen only in this village. It began in the pub on Friday night where the chrome pole was wedged twixt floor and ceiling, in readiness for a girls' night out involving a group of ladies including Mrs Bobby Packman, Randy Munchkin and Mrs Monty Chocs-Away. But there were no takers and the pole stood gleaming in splendid isolation, although Larry the Landlord was thinking about it, as he unbuttoned his shirt behind the bar and kissed his own shoulder. When the door opened and Posh Totty walked in, I saw Mr Grigg and Nobby Odd-Job's eyes light up. But the moment was fleeting, as she was quickly followed by her daughter Charlotte Whinge-Bucket (pronounced Bouquet ), MDF Man and Sparky Mark. During the course of the evening, Larry was talking to customers at a table near the fire. A young lady, tired of waiting for a drink, walked behind the bar and pu...

The wedding is getting nearer. Number One Daughter is behaving like Bridezilla, stressed up to the eyeballs, thinking she's talking about people behind their backs but actually saying it to their faces, wittering about table plans, spray tans and eyelash tints and praying for good weather. The wedding coincides with Number One Grand-Daughter starting school (at only four years and two months) and the bridegroom going into business, on his own, in a recession. 'You can back out you know,' Mr Grigg, the snake, whispers to Number One Daughter's intended. Like a shot, Number One Daughter, with the ears of a bat, retorts: 'I keep telling him that.' Future son-in-law rather wisely keeps his mouth shut. My old school friend is paying me another visit tonight. The one whose partner is top-notch fashion designer Jacques Azagury . (Just look at the Diana pages on his website). I thought my plea from earlier in the year about having a little something from the cutting-r...