I don’t claim to be Madame Arcati, the clairvoyant in Blithe Spirit, though I did once collide with Margaret Rutherford, who famously played her, as she swooped down Highgate Hill with her cape billowing behind her. I would say like a bat out of hell, but a bat would have avoided me. Anyway, three months ago I forecast that Hazel Woolley, the tough nut who owns the Grundys’ humble hovel, would have them all out on their ear by Christmas. Old Joe (“I’m 94 y’know”), his son Eddie, his daughter-in-law Clarrie, his pony Bartleby, his pig Barbarella, a flock of unsold turkeys and two whiffy ferrets.
And so it came to pass. I am also available for palm-readings, though frankly, anyone familiar with Hazel and the Grundys could have seen that one coming. In any contest between Them and Us, the smart money is on Them. Do you have a tender heart and a spare bedroom? Did I mention the ferrets?
Ambridge’s recent misfortunes have been positively biblical. First the great flood and now a murrain on the beasts of the field (“The cows are dropping like flies!”). Frogs were confidently forecast. Those of a nervous disposition blame this on the presence of The Evil One, Rob Titchener. Who is Just Awful. Your toes curl into little fists when he tells his terrorised, pregnant wife: “I can’t wait to see you in full bloom.” In fact, the culprit is Lynda’s dog Scruff, who drowned in the flood and is now decomposing in the silage. (Ask me anything about clostridium botulinum type B. Go on. Anything.)
You prefer another astonishing psychic insight? I may go into a slight trance. If I do, pay no attention. I foresee Adam and Charlie, who shared a tender moment in a trench during the flood, bringing their simmering affair to a rolling boil. Which will be tough on Adam’s partner, the chef at Grey Gables, and tougher on anyone who has booked Christmas dinner there. Few things are worse for the digestion than a brokenhearted chef and a half-cooked goose.
A month in Ambridge returns on 9 December.
