A spring soirée

The day of what was to be M&M’s spring garden party dawned, just like in all the best books, bright and beautiful. I lay in bed, picturing it: nice things to nibble, jugs of Pimm’s, Amy Winehouse on the stereo and the sunshine casting an evening glow over the fields.

It was T-shirt weather when Mum and I left to drive along the A1 to the town up the road where it’s always at least two degrees colder. We wore jumpers just in case, but the glorious spring weather had made the temperature there more than commonly tolerable.

The town may suffer from a lack of warmth, but it makes up for it by stocking ‘posh’ food that only appears in the village during the summer to cater for the tourists. Rocket, radishes, couscous – and a dress – were duly purchased. After an internal tussle, I managed to tear myself away from the dragonfly fairy lights that would have sparkled so fetchingly in the tree.

But the weather, which had promised so much in the morning, withdrew its support. The sky turned grey, a chill crept into the air, and while the rest of the country basked in the heat, my plan of a party on the patio lay in ruins. The Pimm’s coped with the transition indoors and Amy Winehouse was exchanged for The Return of ‘Allo 'Allo on TV. I’m sure my plans for an outdoor spring soirée will return too – maybe next week…

Stay at home Saturday

There were two things I wanted to do today and I have done neither.

The first was to go to the Point-to-Point. I resigned myself yesterday to the fact I would miss it because I am skint. Ratcheugh is the coldest place in the world: it has its own weather system transposed from Siberia. Even on a beautiful spring day, you can be assured that the crowds will be shivering. However, today has been veritably hot so I imagine Ratcheugh reached a tolerable temperature.

It is a place of giant skies and stunning views, even for those who are not of a horsy inclination; you can see the sea and at this season’s first meeting in January, we saw Robson Green. He was smaller than I imagined and impossibly tanned for the time of year.

I should also now be at a birthday party. But my sister has decided she is too tired and as I am a wussy girlie, I am not going on my own. It’s probably a wise decision: there is bound to be a fight. There are always fights. When I was younger, it was the local lads versus those who had the audacity to come here from elsewhere for a drink. Then, there was a nightclub of sorts and police presence on a Saturday night to deter the drunken brawlers.

Now, locals fight among themselves. I have seen the trouble erupt from nowhere: no argument, no raised voices, just suddenly spilled drinks and tables turned over as some unfortunate is bashed about. Sometimes it is the local lads against the Polish lads. The shouting alone is frightening; then the Polish lads fetch a knife and the tension is ratcheted another notch. The police, however, are no longer on hand; they have to be called in from elsewhere and the damage has been done before they arrive.

Brawling upsets me. I don’t understand why they do it. I wonder if they do? Perhaps it’s a sign I’m getting old.