The life of the people. If you’re a burned-out urban dweller desperate to swap out your Jimmy Choos for a pair of mud-splattered Hunter wellies, or, like me, a born and bred peasant with the badge to prove it, these are some of the realities of the often hilarious, but more often downright ridiculous stuff in a town near you. You’ve seen Hot Fuzz, you’ve seen the Vicar of Dibley, but do you have what it takes to navigate the dangerous bridle path that is ‘Village Life’?
Now, I’m not going to name my people here for fear of retaliation, but I guarantee that being a resident of the town requires a strong constitution and a stiff upper lip. This is not a place to show your sensitive side. Any sign of weakness and Mrs. Chumley, the Postmaster, will get you in shape: “We won’t take any of that nonsense here” is her favorite retort. A stoic resident is a celebrated resident. And don’t even think about spreading the village’s salt supply on that icy patch you’ve slipped into for the fourth time this week. That particular duty belongs to Brian, the only problem is that Brian’s memory is not what it used to be. Still, there has only been one serious accident this year …
Each town has its ancestral traditions and mine is no exception. In those long-awaited days of celebration, where freshly washed gingham tablecloths, stacked cupcakes and pennants hung, I have learned to expect the unexpected. The ‘well rehearsed’ Maypole dance inevitably ends in tears. There is always one, right? Last year it was little Giles Rowbottom. Dazzled by the stars and completely distracted by the presence of his Aunt Alice, he was whipped into a frenzy by the frenzied applause. He passed his teammate at high speed and collided head-on with Evie Jones. The entire community of children in the village was entwined and sobbing around a maypole that now bore an uncanny resemblance to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Another not-so-normal “tradition” that has emerged is the Annual Teddy Bear Sponsored Parachute Marathon. Every year on a Saturday in June at 10 o’clock, the village children accompanied by their favorite teddy bear and their anxious parents form an orderly line outside the church. They are greeted at the church door by the Reverend Bishop, sporting a maniacal smile and a parachute bag. After climbing one by one to the tower of the Church, the reverend frantically throws the precious teddy bears, destination unknown. What follows depends on the weather conditions, but chaos is often the order of the day. A crowd of screaming children chasing their furry friends, pulling them out of tree branches and scaling the wall of the Church to access the neighboring garden of the Vicariate. Health and safety never seem to be an issue, despite multiple trips to the ER and a couple of cold packs. After a cup of hot tea and a generous application of Savlon, exhausted and battle-scarred children receive a golden certificate to commemorate the heroic actions of their teddy bears.
The role of the Church within the village is primarily the most remarkable, but it would be nothing without the dear Reverend Bishop. Despite this, he is often responsible for various mishaps and misses. Last Tuesday, as I was cruising the narrow, soggy pavement with my dog, Hamish Mcduff, I looked up and saw the Reverend’s bright red Fiat Punto heading towards me at high speed. The reverend wore his usual smile and thinning gray hair, which normally covered his bald spot, flowed freely behind him. Seconds later, both the dog and I were soaked to the bone. Our local vicar had “splashed us from the car” who, oblivious to his latest crime, rushed to God knows where.
Hamish Mcduff has been responsible for some incidents in the village. Once, while we were doing our daily walk on the green of the town, he saw Helmut, the tavern cat. That was it. He had left. After fifteen minutes of frantic searching, he was out of breath, red-faced, and having horrible visions of pulling him off the road. At this point, I ran into Ms. Hulme in her wheelchair. It became clear that a military operation was underway. Joan, the cat sitter, had placed her at her post (the bridge over the stream), who had instructed her and many other people to stop a large, shaggy gray dog on the spot. Much to the relief of everyone involved, he was stopped by Audrey Sharp from the wine society who had found him in the supermarket, with a branch tied to his tail, wreaking havoc at every corner that turned and cleared another shelf. It seemed to be looking for me.
This did nothing to help the canine community, which was recently attacked by ‘The Chalk Lady’. An anonymous villager who has started prowling the village at night armed to the teeth with white chalk, which she uses to draw large circles around piles of dog droppings, hoping to embarrass the owners of these furry criminals. He announced his war against dog domination with a typewritten poem that appeared overnight stapled to various trees and lanterns around town. In it, she tried to blame the criminals and their delinquent dogs for using the poop bags that were placed at key points in the village. What I hadn’t gambled on was the dog walkers response poem, which I frankly can’t repeat here.
It’s true, sometimes everything can be a bit overbearing. And I will happily be the first to acknowledge this. There will be times when you just want to lock yourself in and never face the wrath of the madmen in town again. When poor weak Mrs. Thompson knocks on your door, demanding that you move your containers instantly or, I quote, there will be “A row like the damn ones.” You smile sweetly, suppress your anger, and ask how his hydrangeas are doing. As tempted as you are to allow your anger to surface, of course you cannot, because you will be attending a parish council meeting with her next Tuesday at 11 o’clock.
However, in contrast to this, is the aforementioned ‘splash drive’ that I received from the Reverend Bishop quite comparable to the same treatment of a double-decker bus in the big city? I did not think. It’s fighting your way through the selfish crowds on the subway just like that half hour at the end of the day, when the small town grocery store cuts fresh produce at ridiculous prices and you are reduced to elbowing your way through your co-workers. wax. Neighbors in jackets, smelling of manure, to get an elusive bargain? It is true, in the city you will not have to precariously lean out of the window to receive the phone signal and your trips to the supermarket will undoubtedly be faster. But do you have a comedy vicar at your disposal? Would someone recognize your dog if you lost it? And someone is more likely to knock on your door and inform you that there is a dead body in your dumpster, threatening you with ‘a fight like Dickens’.
So would I trade my not-so-peaceful village life for the big city? Did you miss all the chaos and hilarity? The questionable and dubious behavior of the locals. I would go crazy?