On Wetness and the Ladies of Uttoxeter.

The first thing I did this morning (even before breakfast) was take a spade out and clear five land drains up the hill from here. The object was to return the road to its proper status as a hard, black thing suitable for the progress of motor vehicles, rather than a torrent of fast flowing water begging to have a hydroelectric damn erected at its lowest extremity.

The subsequent drive to Uttoxeter was unusual, since the lane that runs south from the village in the appropriate direction had become a succession of causeways linking many shallow lakes through which driving a motor car had to be done slowly. Britain is very wet at the moment. If October was the John the Baptist of wetness, November is proving the very Jesus himself. And if a man called Noah makes an appearance, we won’t laugh at him this time.

Having negotiated the watery obstacles successfully, I arrived at Uttoxeter to find that I had no change for the car park ticket machine. I looked for a place to deposit notes in the hope that the machine might have the facility to give change. There was none. I went to the two nearest shops and asked whether they could oblige me by changing a tenner. They both declined. I came back and tried to use my credit card, but the machine was having none of it.

By that time there were two women waiting behind me, neither of whom could change a £10 note, but one of them insisted on donating a £2 coin to my cause. I felt guilty but felt I had little alternative than to accept, and I hoped to bump into her again so as to effect reimbursement. The hope proved to be forlorn, so I assuaged my feelings of guilt by reasoning that the day’s adverse circumstances had afforded her the opportunity to demonstrate her generous nature. I’m clever like that.

But what of the attractive, raven haired young woman who walked past me while I was munching my vegan sausage roll, and who looked at me long and hard before presenting me with a rather nice smile? What about her? Well, I found myself standing behind her in the checkout queue of a discount store on the retail park later. Among her purchases were two mugs, one with a J printed on it and one with a C. I couldn’t resist the opportunity:

‘Excuse me asking,’ I said, ‘but are you the J or the C?’

‘I’m the J,’ she replied with an even broader smile.

The temptation to play the guessing game was all but irresistible, but resist it I did. It would have been a step too far. It might even have provoked the suspicion that I was in some way disreputable. Brevity is almost always a virtue, and restraint is the true stuff of wisdom. That’s the English way, or used to be.