A Little Slice of English Life ...

The weather was lovely again yesterday and my friend sent me a text first thing in the morning, suggesting we went out for the day to enjoy it. Being the total sun ho I am, I cordially agreed.

We didn't really know where to go though, so we decided to start by walking into town to get croissants and hot chocolate for breakfast. In doing so we passed the local church which just happened to be holding a Spring fete. It hadn't opened yet, but we calculated that by time we'd obtained and scoffed our hip-expanding victuals and done a bit of quality retail therapy it would have. So there was the plan.

The croissants and hot chocolate were delicious. So much so that my friend, who is a total extrovert, threatened to seriously embarrass me by re-enacting the fake orgasm scene from "When Harry Met Sally" (although I suspect it had more to do with trying to get the attention of the guy she'd taken a shine to at the next table).

The retail therapy was a little disappointing, I saw the loveliest pair of shoes, high heels in faux, magenta suede! Sigh! I think I might have drooled on them a little. But they didn't have them in my size :( Stupid, popular size 5 feet!! And then I saw the most divine little dress! Low cut at the back but not in a trampy way, it would have been perfect for any one of the numerous 30th birthday bash's I'll soon have to start attending, but they only had one in my size and it had a tear in the side that even if I was handy with a needle and thread (which I'm not ... I was actually removed from the Needlework class at school after breaking 3 sewing machines in a row and sent back for another term in Metalwork) would still look horrible. So I had a bit of a sulk and a pout and felt lots better.

We wandered back to the church, which is small and rather cute, not at all creepy like some churches, the ladies of the WI (Women's Institute for the uninitiated) had skillfully decorated the interior with spring flowers and the last of the daffodils which made it look warm and jolly. The fete was being held round the back and we followed the sound of children's voices and a dog barking.

It wasn't a big fete, but it had all the essential ingredients.

A couple of WI stalls, one sparsely spread with jars of things like homemade jam that you could probably use to cement the stonework of a large castle with and pickled onions floating in vinegar that looked evil enough to dissolve a lung. The other was the cake stall. The little old dears were clearly trying to impress the vicar and had pulled out all the stops; big slabs of dark fruit cake emitting enough brandy fumes to make your eyes water; plates of delicate little fairy cakes smothered with butter cream and multi-coloured sprinkles and brick-shaped lemon drizzle cakes that looked so stodgy you could probably build that big castle with them and use said jam as the cement ... it would stand for centuries, I'm sure.

There's always a definite sense of subtle yet steely competition amongst the WI ladies. They hover around the stalls in their matching twin-sets and with perfectly permed hair that even the deadliest tropical cyclone couldn't budge, huddling in cliquey little groups, critically eyeing each others offerings and muttering things like "I wouldn't be surprised if she uses lard, you know" and "always skimping on the cherries!"

Tucked away in one corner was the worlds smallest bouncy castle. Something to keep the children occupied (which btw is SO unfair! We always make a point of asking if we can have a go on bouncy castles and they never let us! Rotten ageists!) it's always a popular addition to any outdoor social gathering ... well, it is until one of the little darlings, all stoked up on coca cola and fairy cakes, empties the contents of their hyperactive little tummy all over it and several of the other tiny bouncers, then it's not so popular and clears like magic.

There was the obligatory tombola. A display of prizes with a raffle ticket number attached to each item, you pay your pound and get to pick a number from a barrel and win whichever prize happens to be attached to the corresponding number in the display. Sounds like a fun idea, doesn't it? It would be if the "prizes" weren't totally naff; ranging from tins of food with expiry dates going back to the last millennium, clearly harvest festival rejects that even the poor elderly folk of the parish had refused to eat, to crappy, plastic toys and things like glow in the dark toenail clippers that even the local pound shop considered old tat and declined to sell.

There was the old "Guess how many pennies are in this large jar" contest; you had to pay yet another pound for the dubious privilege of taking a guess, with the lucky winner receiving a manky box of Milk Tray that looked suspiciously like they'd been held back from the tombola.

There was a small tent where more WI ladies were serving small, Styrofoam cups of tea that was the same shade as George Hamilton's tan or plastic beakers of anaemic looking orange squash or cola that tasted very much like that crappy old Soda Stream stuff ... if it was watered down even further and left in the sun for a couple of days. Yum!

My eyes lit up and twinkled happily to see a small, used-books stall ... however they quickly dimmed again on being faced with a table depressingly full of Catherine Cookson and Sidney Sheldon paperbacks, plus a large assortment of what could only be classed as 70's soft porn, pulp fiction, with covers showing pictures of improbably bosomed, scantily clad nurses and air hostesses in rather unladylike poses and which looked disturbingly well-thumbed. The little old lady running the stall was either no where near as innocent as she appeared or she hadn't bothered to check the content of the books donated to the cause.

The highlight of the afternoon was being advertised by an adenoidal gentleman via a loud speaker system (which seemed even funnier given the size of the grounds ... he could have just raised his voice slightly and everyone would have heard him) as a heady combination of a dog show and a short speech by the vicar. Every time the Vicar was mentioned the WI ladies oohed and aahed like a bunch of elderly, blue-rinsed groupies.

The dog show turned out to consist of 5 pooches; one was a large, overweight poodle that hadn't seen a bath in months, a rather magnificent German Shepherd who didn't stop barking, 2 mutts of questionable parentage, (one of whom had a very cheeky face and a curly tail and immediately won my affection) and a small terrier who appeared to have a Napoleon complex and wanted nothing more than to have a good go at ripping the German Shepherd's throat out and schtup the poodle ... both of whom were a good three times his size.

It was most entertaining; the owners had to parade their dogs around a small enclosure for the Vicar to admire and judge accordingly, a simple, foolproof plan it would seem. But like all big competitions, all was at stake and it was destined to be full of drama.

The Poodle simply refused to move, one of the mutts had a weak bladder and stopped every 3 seconds for a quick jimmy, blatantly ignoring its owners frantic tugging of its lead; the German Shepherd decided to show his disdain for the whole affair and took a horse-sized dump right in front of the Vicar ... which the Terrier then took personally and launched itself into a frenzy of barking and snarling and had to be removed by his owner. My favourite, the little mutt went last and showed them all how it should be done, trotting around happily, shaking his tail so hard it looked likely to fly off his furry little butt and all with a big grin on his cheeky little face. It was inevitable that he would win ... and he did, amidst much enthusiastic applause and admiration, looking pleased as punch with himself and giving one smug little woof of joy.

I think Edie Brickell got it spot on when she wrote the line "Religion, is the smile on a dog".

The Vicar's speech was something of an anticlimax after all the canine excitement, he bumbled his way through it, using 50 words where only 5 were necessary etc, thanked those in attendance and the ladies of the WI, mentioning a couple of them by name which drew poisonously, jealous glances from some of the others, you just knew a Victoria Sponge would be viciously sabotaged by night fall.

It was a nice afternoon on the whole, although nothing particularly exciting it had pleasantly occupied us, allowed us to glory in the lovely warm weather and given us plenty to talk and laugh about. We walked home feeling happily drowsy from sun saturation and a bit giggly from all the sugar we'd consumed, but most of all we felt satisfyingly English.

Because there is simply nothing more English than a church fete, it shows up and highlights all our best and most endearing eccentricities, it glories in our ridiculous love of everything naff.

On days like that I love being English and wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.