All the fault of the “Trampette”, or was it the Wassail?

Ten to nine on a Sunday morning is not a sensible time to buy croissants from the village store – if you missed out on the eight am Holy Communion service. Yes, the vicar swept into the shop exuding righteousness and in flowing robes, and of course he gave me that knowing look – where were you, unbeliever?

The trampette* had got the weekend off to an enjoyable but bad start. “What are you doing, this evening?” she chirruped down the phone on Friday evening. “Why not a drink in the local pub?”

Inevitably I woke on Saturday morning with a sore head. But worse was to come. The sister duly arrived with her intended for the appointed wine tasting (six bottles to test out in readiness for her forthcoming nuptials). When I asked (it was late teatime) if they wanted a cuppa or a drink her intended looked crestfallen on hearing the news that we had no “ale” in the house, only lagers of one sort or another. Being the polite host I led him down to the village where we sampled (in order) pints of Palmers, Ballard’s Wassail, and then in the second pub he drank IPA and I had a London Pride.

Accordingly we were in fine spirits for the wine tasting. We made a fair amount of noise, voiced lots of opinions and, of course, I fell fast asleep at the dinner table. Oh, the disgrace of it all.

I’m hoping that February will be a better month for my resolutions. I’ve bought a bike. I’ve got a copy of the Atkins 14 Day Diet. I haven’t got too many social occasions in the diary. Yes, I’ll lose a stone – and go to church.

* The daughter (like her father) is extremely fashion-conscious, but (like her father) she tends to dress down in the workplace. I suppose that she is entitled to do this because as soon as she arrives at work she has to change from her normal clothes into whatever people who work in operating theatres wear. As a result she tends to arrive at her hospital looking a little less than a million dollars, and for that reason has been given the somewhat dubious nickname of “trampette”.

I might add that I find that it is my duty as a country bookseller to wear scruffy, food-stained pullovers, creaseless trousers and dirty shoes. It is part of a carefully nurtured image (even though I don’t get to meet with my customers any more, and don’t get given any more of a nickname than “Nappa”).