That afternoon, as the light rain I had predicted began to fall, it was time to set off for the joy that is the local Beer Festival. Why we insist on going each year, I'm not sure, given I only drink poncy foreign beer in girly sized bottles and the DC only drinks lager. I think I am under the impression it is a good country thing to do. I think I am only under that impression because they have some hay bales to sit on.
Nonetheless, nothing daunted, we deposited the Beast with the TQ, ordered the Terror to his basket, pretended we hadn't seen that he had ignored us and set off through the increasingly heavy rain.
The Beer Festival was dismal. There were many men in red trousers. I hate men in red trousers, they are twats. There were also an unnecessary amount of bushy beards, and not nearly enough tweed. I felt extremely smug that I had by far the nicest wet weather clothing, adorable as I was in the Dubes and the Barbour cape (I love my Barbour cape; even though when I proudly showed it to Mrs Farmer, she shuddered and pulled her battered and ancient Barbour round her a little tighter, and sighed at me in resigned disappointment).
Hay bales and looking totes adorable in no way compensated for the beards, the red trousers or the fact I was standing in the rain, in a pub car park, drinking warm, flat cider, when not 100 yards away was a perfectly serviceable tavern, with a roof, and walls, and an inn keeper to whom I could shout "Hendricks and tonic, my good man, ice and cucumber if you would." However, as you had to pay on your way into the 'Festival' which entitled you to a certain number of quaffs of swill, I persevered, despite being jostled by bearded red trousers, for I am cheap.
I was relieved when I had had my quota of flat, warm piss and could repair to the pub for a restorative G&T. There was only time for one however and then it was time to go home and feed the Terror. The DC had been given a free pass for the night, as Saff was away on another D of E expedition, and the other mothers were coming round for more margheritas and gossip (they didn't want to play poker for some reason, even when I promised not to compare myself to Victoria Coren Mitchell again).
Terror fed, vats of margheritas made, the other mothers arrived and we politely embarked on the gossip. Around 8pm, pathetic texts began to arrive from Saff and another feeble child. They were wet. They were cold. They were utterly miserable. They couldn't light the stove to cook the many noodles she had rejected last time that I had made her pack again. There was a puddle in the tent. A terse text enquiring why the fuckety FUCK there was a puddle in the tent revealed they had accidently pitched their tent in a ditch. At this point we lost all sympathy, turned our phones off and made a conscious decision to get as shit faced as possible so we couldn't go and retrieve them even if we wanted to.
This proved to be an excellent decision as under the influence of a litre and a half of tequila, inhibitions were cast aside and any pretence at being nice, impartial or discreet was abandoned. Oh deary deary me! Apparently the whole village is at 'it' ! All shagging each other like bunnies, in between carrying out complex feuds (usually related to the shagging) and shop lifting Prada purses
The DC lurched in some point and joined in the gossip with glee, revealing tales of drug dealing and money laundering (while I sat there thinking "Why haven't you told me this before?" and also "We could have stayed in town for drug dealing and money laundering and I could go to Waitrose EVERY SINGLE DAY"), before sliding off his chair and vanishing.
The others stumbled home around 3am. I followed the snores and found the DC comatose, fully clothed, smack bang in the centre of my bed. I kicked prodded him a couple of times, to no avail, so I left him to it and retired to the spare room with the Terror, to ruminate on the night's revelations. The Terror, emulating his hero, the Alpha Dog, also insisted on snoring loudly all night.
The next day, despite his hangover, I insisted the DC dug out the remaining pampas grass in the garden, lest any of the village shag monsters got the wrong idea about us.
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