Sunday, in my book, means the day of rest. As in lazing in bed as long as possible, reading books, sipping industrial strength coffee, pondering on how to spend the rest of the day doing as little as possible. So I nearly fell out of bed when Aidan said we were going to church. I should never have mentioned the word in my last blog; it was clearly tempting Fate.
‘We never go to church.’
‘Yes we do.’
‘Only for weddings, funerals, christenings and concerts.’
‘Well, I think we should start going now. It’s a way to get to know people, cement ourselves in the community.’
Yeah, right. I know rural church (or any church other than the ones where you wave your arms in the air or loll on the floor garbling in tongues). It means a mean age of 92, Zimmers in the aisles and the ten or so people there mouthing the words to hymns while the organist hits bum note after bum note.
But he was determined and saw off my protests by bribing me with the promise of a nice pub lunch afterwards. I started pulling on my jeans but stopped as his mouth turned into a perfect O of horror.
‘You can’t go to church in jeans. Wear a skirt for Christ’s sake.’
‘I’m not sure Christ would seriously care what I wear: He’ll be so stunned I’m there he’ll forgive any sartorial lapses.’
Aidan didn’t even start a smile. I could see the word blasphemy hovering over his lips. He can be incredibly prudish when he chooses; quite oddly conservative, rather old-fashioned and very dogmatic. He bothers about How Things Look and What People Will Think. So I pulled on a swishy Italian fine wool skirt, simple v-neck cashmere top and – in an attempt at irony – a tweed jacket and a scarf with a hunting pin. I thought he’d laugh his head off but instead he nodded approvingly. God help us indeed.

The church is pretty nondescript. It squats up on a hill above the village, necessitating a stiff climb as you have to park down by the village hall. I sulked all the way and refused to listen to the birds trilling their little hearts out and downright refused to rhapsodise about the bloody daffodils. I loathe daffodils – I must be about the only person (certainly on this website) who hates the damn show-offs. Cheap sluts of flowers. Too bright for spring, too contrived a shape, too in-your-face. Horrid.

As was church. There was, I have to admit, quite a sizeable congregation and not by any means all elderly. They obviously have an unspoken (or maybe rigidly regimented) rule that children aren’t allowed as there wasn’t a buggy to be seen or a squawk to be heard as we rattled through the hymns, bobbed up and down to pray, and were sermoned (is there such a verb?) on the meaning of spring: i.e. hope, fresh new life blah blah blah. I was miles away, in a little reverie about Borough Market, when (horror of horrors) the vicar – a rather bluff cove who could have doubled up as Santa Claus – welcomed us to the village!
‘And, talking of new life…..’ pausing so we could all appreciate his seamless link. ‘I’d like to welcome two new souls to our little community.’
Heads creaked round, like the girl in The Exorcist; distance glasses were donned all the better to see us with; lips were pursed; a few faded polite smiles broke out. One long thin scarecrow of a woman, dressed entirely in black and lurking at the back, positively glared, muttered something to herself and, flicking her fingers as if averting the evil eye, flounced out. Maybe she had wanted our house? Or maybe we’d wrecked her lucrative business harvesting snails from our kitchen walls and flogging them to the local restaurants? ARE there local restaurants?

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Aidan was simpering to the verger/curate/whatever as we trailed out, so I shimmied round him and perused the gravestones. I may hate church, but I love churchyards. Social history engraved in stone. One of my favourite graveyards (I have a top ten like most people have favourite gardens or stately homes) had an ancient row of graves with skull-and-crossbones on them, gothic lettering fading to grey. Usually you can read the history of a village on its gravestones, the same families running through the centuries. But this one was unusual. A high turnover of names, far more than you’d expect. Sadly though, the very usual tide of infant deaths, of lives snipped short. How awful. I couldn’t imagine having a baby and then losing it. Nine months of lugging it round inside you, the agony of childbirth, the inevitable post-natal depression, the stretch marks and all for nothing. I couldn’t help but allow myself a sneaky thought that, following the other afternoon’s activities I might be pregnant, but pushed it firmly away. That way madness lies.

So I peeked round the corner of the church and could see Aidan talking to the vicar, peering over his shoulder to find me, obviously irritated that I hadn’t submitted to trial by clergy. A queue was building up behind him and even he couldn’t monopolise the Reverend Santa indefinitely so eventually he shook his hand and wandered off irritably down the path. I let him get far enough that a recall was impossible and then trotted along and caught him up.
‘Where the hell were you?’
‘Hardly a very Christian sentiment, darling. I was just looking at the graves. Now, where are we going for my nice lunch?’
He gave me what I can only describe as an evil look and nodded sweetly at the fetid little inn on the other side of the green. I refused to let him see that I cared, that I was remotely bothered.
‘Great. It’s about time we tried it,’ I said and walked smartly up to the door, paint peeling off it in curls; framed by a porch ridden with rot and piled with sandbags (is this to stop the water coming in, or getting out?).

As we stepped across the threshold, the smoke hit us like a wall. Smoke ban? What smoke ban? It didn’t bother me though; I must be one of the few people who actively like the smell of cigarette smoke. Before I met Aidan, I used to smoke like a chimney and I still have pangs for those comforting little cancer sticks. But Aidan is a health freak and is wont to moan so loudly and persistently at smokers in public places that you want to crawl away and hide under the table and pretend you’re a dog rather than be associated with him. I sneaked a glance at him, fully expecting to blow his lid. But then again, would he want to upset ‘the locals’? Hmm. There was a battle going on but in the end he evidently decided that When in Rome….. Although I could see him breathing shallowly in an effort not to inhale, he didn’t make a murmur.
It’s a cliché but it was a bit like that scene in the American Werewolf in London. As we walked in, the conversation stopped – dead. I fixed a bright smile on my face and made for the furthest table, by a surprisingly decent log fire. There was a small pile of dog-eared Country Lifes and I flicked through the property pages playing my favourite game of ‘which house on the page would you pick?’ Studiously ignoring the country piles and focussing every scrap of my attention on the £11 million Mayfair apartments and the villas in the Bahamas. Aidan was trying to be all pally with the barman who was a dead spit for Gary Oldman – not in a good way; more a rolling eyed Sirius Black way. I usually like a Bloody Mary for my Sunday lunchtime tipple but I wouldn’t trust one from this place in a million years so opted for a gin and tonic. Surely that would be safe?
‘No slimline, darling.’ Bloody typical.

At that moment the most bizarre thing happened. There was a sort of frenzied scratching noise at the door and then it swung open to reveal – a dog. A small Jack Russell, the cocky type with the rough punky coat and the short stubby legs. Nobody batted an eyelid as it sauntered in and then nimbly jumped up onto a bar-stool. Gary Oldman nodded at it, as if it were one of his old regulars, and pumped some beer into an ashtray and put it in front of it. The dog lapped and then gave a loud burp (OK, I made the burp up but the rest is God’s truth). Gary then split open a packet of Walkers’ Cheese and Onion and laid that in front of the dog and it ate them, quite daintily really.

‘Isn’t that brilliant?’ said Aidan, returning to the table and handing me my gin and sickly sweet tonic (two small ice cubes, no slice of lemon). ‘It’s called Rommel. Comes in every day for a pint and a packet of crisps. Apparently it used to belong to an old military type, ex-colonel who lived in the old rectory, but he died about a year ago. Now it sleeps rough but Saul (Saul??) keeps it going.’
Poor little bastard. Beer and crisps isn’t exactly a balanced diet. I suddenly had a brilliant idea.
‘Aidan. Terriers are brilliant ratters. We used to have them at the farm to keep the rats down in the outbuildings. If he hasn’t got a home, why don’t we adopt him?’
I gulped and almost wished the words back in my mouth. I know I’d said I wanted a dog but if a dog isn’t making a commitment to the country, I don’t know what is. You can’t – in all fairness – have a dog in the city. I think it’s cruel, unless it’s some horrid little lapdog. Real dogs need the countryside.
Aidan was torn. I knew that he’d already been checking out the websites for Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Hungarian Vizlas (sp?). He wanted a trophy dog, a snob-dog, a big chunky he-man dog. Not a short-arsed flea-bitten terrier with attitude. Yet (see how well I know him) on the other hand, I could see his mind whizzing round the fact that a dog would root me to this godforsaken place. He put down his pint of Stella (no real ales in this dump) and took my hand in his and stroked it.
‘If it would make you happier, sweetheart, sure. I suppose he might not stay with us, if he’s used to being his own boss. But we could give it a go. I’ll see what Saul thinks.’
And then, halfway to the bar he turned back and broke the bombshell.
‘He’d keep you company, anyhow, while I’m away.’
Away? What did he mean, away? Turned out he had promised to go up to London the next day to ‘sort things out’. What things? Things. Grrr, I hate men. I’ll train Rommel to bite balls. And not the rubber type.

PS – sorry I’ve been rattling on. Hopefully everyone has given up and gone to bed so this one will just float off into the ether unnoticed.