Party-pooper

I have been both busy and also, quite unreasonably, cross.

I am busy because the weekend is about to launch itself upon us, there was shopping to be done and food to be readied. Lucy is coming home, so her bedroom had to have all traces of boy removed before she arrives, involving a hasty wiping-down and hoovering. In the manner of small boys’ bathrooms since the beginning of time, the shower was untouched, the soap still in its wrapper, but the loo was revolting.

Oliver is grown-up now, so his bathroom needed a thorough clean. He actually uses the shower these days.

I am cross because we have had an invitation to a family party tomorrow.

I am perfectly well aware that this is not something to be cross about. It is always lovely to be invited to parties, except this one.

It is a get-together of Mark’s family.

For some reason I do not entirely understand, given that they are all of a farming nature, if not actually fully engaged in that mighty labour at the moment, they have concluded that the perfect siting for their party is a field somewhere in the Kentmere Valley.

To fully appreciate my feelings about this, you need only look out of your window, assuming, dear reader, you are currently basking in our glorious British summer.

It is raining. It is raining even as I write, and the forecast for tomorrow is lots and lots more rain. Several inches of it, in fact.

I asked Mark if he thought it likely that his family might have hired a marquee. He looked a bit guilty and said that he didn’t think so. In fact, he thought, unless somebody brings a gazebo, it is going to be an outdoor picnic.

I am not generally overwhelmed with the lavatory facilities at picnics.

Worse than that, however, and the source of my lack of gruntle, is the difficulty that no matter how wet, cold and muddy it is, and the Kentmere Valley is prone to flooding so it will be all of these things, I can’t currently squeeze my poor self-pitying feet into any kind of shoe. It will be flip-flops through the puddles, and given that there is already an infection in my toe, we had better hope that the field has not recently been occupied by cows.

Of course in India they actually rub cow dung into cuts, although probably it is just another way of tackling the overpopulation crisis.

Just to add even more to my lack of delight at the whole venture, it turns out that it is not a party hosted by somebody who is kindly welcoming us to drinks and a picnic. We must, the no-expense-spared invitation by text explained, bring some food to share.

I am not a farmer’s wife and had no intention whatsoever of producing a wholesome stack of fruitcakes and bread-fried-in-lard, or whatever you are supposed to eat when you are a farmer, so today I had to trail up to Booths for some ethical chicken drumsticks. I faffed about for ages making barbecue sauce, which was nastily sticky, and left it all to marinate in the fridge until tomorrow. I keep hoping that they will telephone and cancel, but Mark knows that they won’t.

I am going to have to trail politely through the mud and dung and smile at people.

I am rendered even more troubled at the prospect of the afternoon because I think it entirely likely that various local worthies whom I generally avoid as if they had smallpox, might be there.

Just to give you an idea, when Mark’s mother was contemplating doing B&B at the farm, somebody raised the objection that there was only one bathroom, and the occupants, from different families, would have to share.

Well, said the Local Worthy, that won’t matter. Nobody minds sharing, not unless they’re completely up themselves.

There is no doubt that by that local yardstick I am completely up myself, and unlikely to be popular.

I can hardly wait.