A trip to Town.

Tuesday morning. Early.
I drag myself out of bed at 8.25. Today is signing on day at the job centre. The morning bus leaves at 9.02 so usually I arrive at 9.15 for a 9.40 appointment... that bugs me. This morning however, there is a little excitement in the Village; I am reliably informed by an old lady at the bus stop that it's "Keith's" day off. Not only is it "Keith's" day off, but there is a rather large lorry blocking the entire road up at the Village Shop... The bus driver comments on it and the old lady says that he'd better back up and go out of the Village by the other road. That's all very well, but what about potential passengers at the top of this road, I wonder... After a few more minutes of discussion over the length of time the delivery men will be here, Keith's substitute rings his boss and reports the giant lorry. "What do you want me to do? Go down Bishops Avenue? Right." Well, this is exciting. The bus is taking a detour. We are going down one of the other roads that eventually all lead to one place... Out of the Village. I can't help wondering whether this kind of thing happens often, but for me, this is new and different!
Unfortunately, this means the bus is now a few minutes late but meh, at least I won't have to hang around... When we get to town, I decide that I will investigate the Post Office before the job centre as I need to post a card but when I get directions from a random fruit seller, I discover that it is at the other end of town and I won't have time to get there before I am supposed to be at the job centre. It is raining quite heavily now and as I am on my way to the job centre I realise that somehow, I have taken a wrong turn and I have no idea where I am. I do not know quite how this happened, the town is very small and I have wandered around it a million and one times; perhaps I am distracted. Eventually, having somewhat bizarrely walked around in several circles, I do make it to the job centre and I have a few minutes to check the "job-spots" before my name is yelled across the room and I have to go and tell the advisor that I have been a good girl and actively sought work this fortnight and sign a piece of paper to say that I have not done any paid work that would affect my benefits. That, in itself, is funny since the Agency have already lost one copy of my "Habitual Residence Test" and I have had to fill in another, resulting in the fact that my claim has yet to be processed. Apparently, if one leaves the country for more than a month and wishes to claim benefits, one needs to then prove that one has a right to reside here. It seems that a birth certificate, passport and National Insurance number are not enough to do that...
One thing I rather do enjoy about the job centre is that the advisors refer to each of us as Mr, Mrs or Ms and our surnames... none of this casual first name nonsense here. Nice. When I have finished signing the piece of paper and explaining to my advisor why I am not going to apply for any jobs as a receptionist, I leave the centre and go, once again, in the direction of the Post Office, via the mobile phone shop where I discover that my phone which is not playing MP3s as it should performs perfectly for the shop assistant so he tells me that I will have to wait for it to get worse before they send it back to be fixed. I do my best to keep my expression very bland and continue on to the Post Office. The Post Office has been relocated. It used to be in the centre of town but now, it is in the back of a convenience store called Costcutters which, I have on good authority, is actually rather expensive. There is a short line and a potentially difficult customer at cashier number 4, but I think he is mentally ill as opposed to being out to cause trouble so I don't worry too much about him and within a surprisingly short interval, I am at cashier number 3 and my card is in the mail. I decide then, to go into the ASDA superstore at the other end of town before I catch my bus to see if I can find a matching hat and scarf set because, believe it or not, it is somewhat cold here already. However, I discover that I have been faffing around for so long that I only have 15 minutes before the bus. I must catch this one, because the next one is not for another 2 hours. I have a quick look in New Look instead and decide that there is no way in hell that I am paying 8GBP for a woollen beret for which there is no matching scarf and go to the bus stop. I am pleasantly surprised that the bus is on time and then that an elderly gentleman insists that ladies must go first and that he refuses to get on the bus before me despite my protestations. Chivalry is not dead; that's refreshing. It's freezing when I get home and I have just enough time to have a cup of tea before my cousin turns up with her ten year old son.

Soundbites.

Thursday, at the dinner table, after dinner.

My stepdad "Would you like some stewed apple with your yogurt?"

My Mum "Well I bet you put loads of sugar in it!"

SD "I didn't put any sugar in it, darling."

M "Well then, it will be really sour, won't it?!"

And I live with this...

Dibley without the Lady Vicar... or is it...?

I've been reliably informed that the new curate is not only a woman, but a "jolly good egg". So... the Village really is becoming Dibley. However, since the Anglicans only have one service at 9.30 - I don't see how I am going to meet the Lady Vicar any time soon... oh well...

Moving Houses.

Tuesday lunchtime.
My Mother tells me very casually that on Saturday, we will be going to Totnes to help my Aunt move out of the barn conversion in which she lives with her weird friend, Una and into a smaller, more affordable flat in town. Predictably, I am unimpressed; I have done my fair share of packing boxes and lugging them around in the last few weeks, but when my Mother gives an order, one does as one is told. Besides, my brother and my cousin are coming with a van and we will all go out to eat when the move is complete, so that doesn't sound too bad. Oh, and we will be meeting my Aunt's new boyfriend for the first time, too. Lovely.

Saturday morning approx 9.30.
Having dragged myself very reluctantly out of bed, I spend about half an hour looking at my cup of tea before I get in the shower. My mother actually makes me iron a T-shirt before we leave and I give the back of the door the most withering look I can muster as I mutter to myself about the point of ironing to go and move someones house. My brother phones to say that my cousin hasn't arrived to pick him up from Bristol yet but they are supposed to be at my Aunt's already. I decide that I will put my hair up in a sort of bun type affair, but I have no hair spray so I have to run around to the local chemist to see if they have any. When I have huffed and puffed my way up the hill, I see that someone has actually parked their car so close to the door that I cannot really get in without my zip scratching said car. After thinking about it for twenty seconds, I decide that I do not care about their car and squeeze in anyway. A girl I suspect to be the pharmacist's daughter is busy chatting with the car owners about how busy she is because she has five jobs at the moment so that she can save up to go travelling. I am baffled, why doesn't she just stick with the one full-time job...? I finally get her to notice that I am waiting to pay for the can of hairspray and do my best not to say something really sarcastic as I hand over the money. Twenty minutes later my hair looks fabulous but my Mum is really annoyed because she wanted to have left ages ago; I take my time choosing a pair of purple socks.
My Mum bitches and complains the whole way to Totnes about how ridiculous it is that we have to go, no one needs this many people to help move house. I think she is more annoyed that my Aunt has picked today to introduce her new boyfriend to her son, daughter, sister, sister's husband, niece and nephew. Well, it's her life and if she wants to put the poor chap off, who are we to argue?
I am quite looking forward to seeing the barn conversion, I must say; it has been described to me as being the most marvellous place with an astonishing view of the countryside. When we get there, however, I take against the place immediately. It is not what my idea of a barn conversion should be. For a start all the rooms are really small although the ceilings are so high that even with the industrial extra-long feather duster, I can't reach the cobwebs. I have been assigned to cleaning duties with my Mum, while the boys load the van and ferry things between houses. Quite why we have to clean when my Aunt's weird friend, Una, apparently has never done any cleaning in her life, is beyond me. I don't mind doing the dusting but the cooker is rank, as are Una's cupboards; once again I ask my Mum, why exactly are WE doing UNA'S cleaning? My Mum says that we are doing it to help my Aunt (?) but predictably, I notice that when we have finally finished and are in the car going to the pub, she bitches the entire way about having had to clean the whole house... I can't resist pointing out that I had told her not to bother. That does not go down well. Nor does the fact that we are all going out to eat. My Mum doesn't want to go and have a meal at the pub. What she really doesn't want to do is sit and make small talk with her sister's new boyfriend. Never mind the fact that I might want to see my brother and my cousins. Eventually they turn up and I end up on a table with them moaning about the job centre and the government in general while the "grown-ups" sit together and bitch about the food, which I think is fine.
It's just like Christmas used to be when we were kids, all of us had to sit at a different table, and I was supposed to be the responsible one and make sure that the rest of the kids behaved. We are not behaving at the moment, I have only eaten a tiny ham sandwich all day and I am on my second glass of red, Lizzie still has alcohol in her system from last night and we are getting slowly drunker and embarrassing our brothers who are still very sober. Of course the louder we get, the more embarrassed they are, and the funnier Lizzie and I think that is. We go home at some point and my Mum actually tells me that if I can't hold my wine, I shouldn't drink it... I can't be bothered to have a cup of tea and I go to bed, really annoyed.

Singing Sensations (Another vignette)

Tuesday morning, 11.00.
I get off the bus at the Village Shop - it feels like the crack of dawn but I have already been into the nearest town to sign on and buy some essential toiletries. Still not quite sure how the extremely strange bus system actually works I pressed the button to ask the driver to stop at the next stop but he just pulled over right there and then. I think about going into the shop to buy some emergency supplies but decide I'll have an apple when I get home instead. While I am deliberating this point however, I notice an A4 sheet stuck in the window.
"Do you love singing? Join Pippa, Claire and Liz in the Community Centre on Thursday at 19.30" hmm... I consider this for a while as I am strolling towards the house; a village singing group... might be good. On the other hand, it might be desperate. We'll see, I think to myself as I let myself into the house.

Thursday evening, 18.50.
I think about what to wear to the "Singy Thing" as I have come to refer to it in my head. I don't know what kind of affair this will be and I do not know what one is expected to wear to any kind of "Village Function". I decide not to change and simply brush my hair, pull on a cardigan and walk up the road. At the end of our street, I come to the conclusion that I am in need of chocolate and take a total detour back to the Village Shop in order to procure some fruit and nut made by a certain company whose packaging colour of choice is purple. Obviously, now I am late. And, when I arrive at the Community Centre, it takes me a few minutes to work out how to get in. It is yet another Village Building with a very strange entrance system; there is a door which is not a door and the actual door is tucked away round the side... I find myself following a rather elderly lady through the door since despite the fact that I have managed to locate the door, I still don't really know where I am going... I sidle into the hall looking around me suspiciously. Sat around in a sort of messy semi-circle are about ten Villagers who are all over fifty years old and belting out "Michael row your boat ashore" lustily if not entirely tunefully. I grimace inwardly, as I pick up the sheaf of papers that lies on the chair to which I am directed. Michael row the boat ashore, is to be followed, it seems, by What shall we do with a drunken sailor and then, by Sailing, I am sailing - (yes, the Rod Stewart "classic"). I think briefly about running for the hills but I realise that I am in now, and leaving would just be rude; I will have to make the best of it. The Community Centre is painted white, the room we are in is completely bare save for a couple of trestle tables and several stacks of those plastic chairs, and on the walls are a bunch of notices about various activities to be hosted here at some point in the future. After we have sung through What shall we do with a drunken sailor, a woman with strawberry blonde, frizzy hair, dressed in an orange cardigan stands up and begins to welcome us all to the evening. In a moment, she says, Claire will stand up and say a bit about why we started this group but before that, she wants to welcome all of us, especially those she doesn't know... She introduces Liz at the harmonium and explains that Liz is an expert pianist but that she is not used to playing that thing, which doesn't have enough notes. Oh... good... So, Claire goes on to explain, inspired by some telly programme about a choir which I have never seen, they wanted to form a group for people who just love singing. Maybe you've always wanted to sing and try things vocally, but you've never believed you have any talent in that direction. This group is for you. At this point I am already trying not to run from the room, screaming and she commits the mortal sin of mentioning John Rutter and the fact that he says in some interview that singing releases the same endorphins as chocolate... Does it...? So, she carries on in one of those bright, positive type tones that really annoy me if I am in a bad mood, we just thought that we really wanted to just come together and well, sing, really. One thing we are NOT interested in, is performing. I assure myself that I am doing a (wo)manful job of keeping my disappointment off my face and grinning brightly I pick up the papers again and prepare to belt out These are a few of my favourite things; everyone except me comes in late on the second verse so I feel like a total plonker. Which is ridiculous because I am right. It only gets worse as just after the first time round, a rather rotund fellow joins us and immediately leans over my space to tell "Keith" that he won't make golf on Saturday... These are a few of my favourite things, is followed by Eidelweiss and then, Pippa announces, we will take a short break and have a glass of water and get to know each other. I sit in my chair like a lemon while Keith and his friend discuss the golf and the ladies flock around the water jugs. Eventually, the lady after whom I had ventured into the hall returns to her seat and wants to know what I have written on my T-shirt. What I have written on my T-shirt is "Hand over all your chocolate and nobody gets hurt". At least that is a conversation starter and as I get chatting to the lady whose name is unspellable but sounds like Loider, she is in her own words, ancient and describes everyone she approves of as a good egg. She's in the middle of explaining her desire to move to Teignmouth because she needs more help than she is getting where she is at the moment, when Claire makes a bee-line for us. Do I live in the Village? Oh I've just come back from Japan? How exciting... I must introduce you to Pippa, she's Stephen-the-vicar's-wife. It's Pippa and Stephen's dog that has been wandering around the hall since we began singing, demanding attention from us at random, a huge white thing vaguely resembling a giant beagle with the odd pale brown patch, I had been suspicious at first but I have warmed to the beast, whose name appears to be Saffron, since. Since Claire and Loider seem to be acquainted with the Anglican vicar, I decide to ask them if they know the Methodist Minister since I have been to the Anglican service and sadly found it a little staid for my own tastes. Neither of them have any idea where the Methodists were on Sunday but after a brief discussion of why the Anglican service is so rigid and their desperate need for the Mission Praise Hymn book, Loider suggests that I try the Methodists in Shaldon; that's the next Village and that's where she tends to go. It's more lively, she continues and I'll probably find some people closer to my own age, it's full of jolly good eggs. Perhaps I'll go in a couple of weeks, I have commitments for the next two Sundays. That's a shame, Loider tells me, the Methodist Minister's "side-kick" is a marvellous woman who is having her second wedding blessed this Sunday and I am invited. Loider reminds me of a jolly good friend of mine in Tokyo and she's about the same age as he is, too; I suspect that we will get along famously if we continue to meet, but I still can't go on Sunday... By this point, I have been introduced to Pippa who also thinks that Tokyo sounds exiting and more to the point, thinks that I am absolutely marvellous for venturing out on my own into a room full of people I don't know. Well, I suppose that's one way of looking at it.... mad, would be another. The evening of singing continues with a selection of popular classics such as We shall overcome and He's got the whole world in His hands, both of which are notorious for making me cringe; I struggle not to grimace as we sing through them and am about to breathe a sigh of relief when Pippa stands up and starts talking about how much fun it will be to "play around" with these pieces. By which, it turns out, she means harmonise, my face twitches as Pippa goes on to demonstrate some "possible things people could do, if they were feeling adventurous". (At some point, Pippa simply must have been a primary school teacher.) I just sing all the alto lines. This goes on for another few numbers and then I feel the blood drain from my face as Pippa announces that the last song we will do comes from the local school. It's only short I tell myself, 6 lines, how bad can it be...really...? So, Pippa says... we'll sing it seven times. I am sure my face is already a picture. The first time, Liz will play it through, the second time, Pippa will sing by herself, the third time, Pippa will sing and the rest of us (who should have picked up the tune by now) will hum along. The fourth time, the ladies will join in and the fifth, the men will join us all. The sixth time we'll all give it some SERIOUS welly and the seventh... well we'll just know what to do... we'll let the music guide us. By this point I am having a very tough time not running from the room and throwing up into a handy bucket (I'm sure there will be one) because the words to this song are so cheesy they are putrid, all about unity in song and I am fairly sure that the tune will be equally as cheesy and I am not disappointed. When we have finally finished, there is some confusion as Liz thinks she has to play it one more time by herself but Pippa and Claire have already started thanking us all for coming, telling us that they didn't want to overdo it so the next one will be in a month's time and could they please extract funds from us all in order to cover the cost of the room and the photocopying... After a brief chat with Pippa, it turns out that Loider and I are going the same way, and we have a nice little conversation about how disgraceful it is that no one seems to be able to use an apostrophe correctly these days. I offer to walk her right to her door but she says she will be fine, and I go into the house for a cup of tea and a nice sit down.

The Mystery of the Methodists (A vignette)

Sunday morning, 10.20.
The sky is a little overcast and the temperture bordering on chilly but I bravely pull on a sweater and decide to venture "outside" to visit the Methodist church as the Anglican service at 9.30 has proved to be just a little too early and a little too rigid for my tastes. (For rigid, read unfortunately dull). So, I pull the sweater closer and walk the five minutes up the hill towards the Post Office and through the gate into what passes for the car park and make my way around the building to the side door because the front door is closed. But... there is no side door. Baffled, I wander around to the other side of the building, to see if it might be hidden round there. Nothing but brick; I can't understand it so I move onto tiptoes to peer inside through the window and the church looks empty. At least there is no music coming from inside, the lights are off and I do not hear anyone talking either... Frowning somewhat, I look up at the sky, it may rain soon although it seems to be getting warmer... I consider calling the Minister at the number on the notice board outside but there seems to be little point, if the service has simply been moved and no one has thought to put a notice up, the Minister is not likely to be answering the phone... and if there is no service after all, what on earth would I say "get your bum to your church and do the service just for me!"??!
Bemused, I wonder if I have the time wrong and go back to the notice board on the wall outside the grounds to check but no, there it is in black and white (well a blue bordering on royal and gold at any rate) 10.30 and a lady preacher to boot... so where is she...? Sighing, I come to the conclusion that there is no service today and start to amble home when out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple walking through the gate and I decide to follow at a safe distance to see what they do. They too, look totally confused and as they stand in front of the church gaping at each other, I make my presence known. "I think it's locked" I say quietly "But I didn't actually try to open the door..." The chap urges his lady friend/wife/sister/cousin to try the door and she does, but it doesn't budge, the steel handle looks faintly rusty and the reddish paint crumbling from the door clashes. We stand in a little circle gazing at each other, wondering how to proceed. We make small talk, complain about the state of public transport, speculate as to the whereabouts of the congregants and the lady preacher, discuss the possibility of rain this morning. My life in Tokyo makes me appear enigmatic and glamorous as we continue the theme of transport and me not having to have driven anywhere because Tokyo's public transport system is second to none. We nod vaguely at each other and smile in a faintly embarrassed way, as if we have each intruded in the others' lives and then I decide to go home for a cup of tea and a nice sit down and the couple wander on to the Vineyard to see if the coffee shop is open.


Tune in soon for "The Cheerful Choristers"
*Name subject to change