epsiode 27

The Village Fair / the re-urbinisation of Faith

I love a good village fair. In my profile I admit to watching Midsomer Murders after all. (Too rock and roll). And now I am the inhabitant of a village, it was only a matter of time before the fine English institution of the Village Fair would come my way. It came sooner than I expected. After only two weeks of village life, my first village fair was upon us.
They had some weird theme that I couldn't quite fathom; a cross between Robin Hood and the Grim Reaper if the posters were at all accurate, but that didn't deter me. Oh no, it was with mounting excitement that I thought about the Tombola (my firm favourite), and the Morris dancers, (never quite sure how normal they are but love their enthusiasm all the same). Oh, how I love a village fair.
So, the day arrived, and despite the fact that many of my London friends were slightly bemused, my friend and I headed out to watch the parade. Unlike most of the dates I've been on, the village fair lived up to my expectations. It's really warming in this day and age, with negativity and fear surrounding most of our communities, to see everyone bandying together, and wanting to do something to celebrate where they live, (end of party political broadcast). So, we hit the stalls, won a lovely bottle of Madeira wine and a thing of talc on the Tombola, so I was definitely happy. Needless to say that it wasn't awash with fit men, although there was an old guy who really knew how to throw at the coconuts, and a couple of the Morris dancers weren't bad at all. However, that wasn't the point.
We joined in, buying raffle tickets and cooing over the cakes, I spotted some of the local characters (wet suit man was wearing clothes), and a few of our neighbours.
After a while, we headed to one of the local pubs for a glass of Mead, (actually it was wine, but I've always wondered what Mead tastes like), and again, it was nice to see how the community had turned out for the day.
'I think I could get used to this,' I said to my friend after having had a quick chat with the local organic farmer. He was really fun, although apparently the pub we were in was the only one of five in the village he hadn't been banned from. She looked at me, slightly concerned.
'Heels, town, cocktails, now.' Who was I to argue?
We went to meet a friend whose birthday it was, tottering in heels as if all was once again normal. I was even wearing my pre-village red lipstick and my friend told me she was relieved, especially when I almost threw myself in front of a taxi, as if I was still in London. Despite me chattering on a bit about the village fair, she seemed to think I had been saved.
It didn't take long for us to get talking to people, after all we were at a friends' birthday and he thoughtfully introduced us to his friends (both male and female), not with their names but with the year in which they'd met. Novel, I thought.
1990, was a nice chap. A bit quiet, rugged, looked a bit like David Essex after a hard paper round. 2003/4 (couldn't be quite sure), wasn't really interested in talking further, so I never did find out her name. 2006, the newbie seemed a little confused as to why he was there. And on it went.
Having not yet been wholly successful in quitting smoking (although I have cut down tremendously), we found ourselves sitting outside, and we were soon joined by a group of men (I think they were all mid-90s to be honest). And although technically this can't be described as smirting, as we hadn't targeted anyone, we didn't go back inside. We sat, drinking, smoking and chatting for ages. My friend explained that I was some kind of re-urbanisation project, and they all enthusiastically agreed to help.
So, off we went to another cocktail bar, where all around us were beautiful people. I tried to enjoy myself, indeed I did, but there wasn't a Morris dancer in sight.
After elegant cocktails we then went to a club. The music thumped, there were lots of cute guys and lots of glamorous girls. We had a drink and then we danced. My feet hurt so I got one of our companions to hold my shoes. This is something I used to do a lot, and as I shoved them into his chest I uttered the 'don't you dare lose them or I'll kill you,' threat. And as everyone told me to be careful in case there was glass on the floor, it seemed my re-urbanisation was complete, as I waved off all warnings with a crazy dance.
I danced with a number of men, nothing sleazy, but just fun, and finally when I needed another drink I found that the poor man I'd shoved my shoes at was routed to the spot still clutching them. Urban Faith is obviously far scarier than village Faith. So I bought him a drink to say sorry, and retrieved my shoes. It was turning into a normal Saturday night.
A married man whose wife I'd had a conversation with earlier hit on both me and my friend. After making her feel uncomfortable, he told me I looked about 27 (which really, I'd love to believe but just don't), and that I had the most gorgeous eyes he'd ever seen, and well he got a bit too close for comfort. But not as close as the slightly overweight guy who instead of asking someone to move, squeezed past me, holding onto my arms and pressing himself against me for longer than was necessary. After I escaped I was told that he had been 'frotting.' I'd never heard of it but it's rubbing oneself up against unsuspecting people, furniture or walls. Apparently it's a favourite of Japanese men on the subway???? Yuk. I retreated to talk to the man who had looked after my shoes. He was cute and funny and actually managed to save me from married man and frotter, which had to be a bonus.
Eventually, at dawn we caught a taxi home. I had given my phone number to shoe boy, and my friend was satisfied that all was back to normal. However, as the next day, my flatmate and I sat on our sofas, under our blankets watching TV and nursing hangovers we couldn't help but talk of our love for the village.
'Those Morris dancers really knew how to move,' I mused.
'And there was no frotting going on,' my friend pointed out. I nodded, sagely.
'It's definitely safer in the village.'
'I'll drink to that.' And we both raised a glass of nice Tombola Madeira wine.