Naked internecine strife, hitherto restricted to the lower orders in Ambridge (that dull thudding in the background is the Grundy brothers at it again), has spread to the Archers themselves. In a moment of ill-considered candour, lulled by a warm beaker of elderflower pressé and a deafening chorus of birds, David told his widowed sister Elizabeth that it was his fault her husband was fooling about on the icy roof of Lower Loxley in January. Sorry about that, sis. The effect was like stepping on a black cat in the dark. The air was filled with claws and imprecations. Elizabeth shrieked that David was dead to her and has since been hurling peacemakers – Shula, Kenton, Jill, Ban Ki-moon – into ringside seats.
David is stunned. Never a loquacious man, he now communicates only in gnomic grunts like "We're losing good grass in Wormits." I think the word was Wormits. I'm not asking him. You don't see many poleaxed oxen around these days, but that is the general effect.
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. There is some lovely, quiet, and largely uncredited writing, like Susan's inconsequential babble. Nothing much happens in Ambridge, which is what usually happens in life. Take the conference bookings at Lower Loxley. Pigeon fanciers, it appears, can get a bit intense and Quakers are much quieter than Methodists. Which, fair dos, is no surprise. They also had a two-day booking for Edible Fats, but I can't help you there. The plumbing burst at Grey Gables ("The Rev Cadwallader took it very personally for a clergyman") and Jolene, The Bull's abundant hostess, checked into the spa for a mud wrap. I would like you to dwell on this restful image.
In Ambridge Extra, which has the bonus of being almost impossible to find in the schedules, Chaz, a student with a sideline in loan sharking, is about to get his comeuppance. Possibly from Alice's husband, whose strength is as the strength of 10 because he's the village blacksmith.
