Thoughts on France

I owe George my humble apologies, I had not realised what a terrible shock to his system travelling to France with the rampant females of Oxhill would be.

In fairness it was impossible to forecast the profound mental impact that a supposedly innocuous trip to Monet's house and garden would bring about but I suppose he hadn't anticipated the lowering of tone that four brazen hussies from Merrydown might have on "The Gardening Club".

One might have thought that coach load of women would give George enough to write about and a perhaps offer a chance to poke a bit of fun but, what to anyone else might have been an earth shattering experience, from him, after the event, drew two tight lipped lines in the magazine.

Not quite "the Gardening Club went to Monet's garden and it was enjoyed by all," but close enough

We husbands know the real story, George was frightened that if he told the truth about the trip no one would go next year.

I know just what he suffered, I live with it and, for an all too brief interlude, Merrydown became a haven of peace and tranquility as we relaxed with a few beers listening to the bird songs that one can actually hear without women talking. We also had free use of the television control without the nightly embarrassment of an arm wrestling contest to decide who presses the buttons.

While George sat, tight lipped, quaffing his wine and grimacing as another shriek of laughter imploded on his ears, in the evening we smoked cigars and drank Port, listening to gale force winds howling in the chimney as the logs roared into a furnace of activity, helped by God's bellows. We looked out of the windows, snug and warm inside, as the willow fronds lashed themselves into a frenzy, imagining that coach load of, mainly, women all being sea sick. Laugh we nearly choked with glee at the thought.

How could George only manage two short lines? I know from suffering in silence myself the paralysing effect that the staccato rabbiting of those particular four friends can have on a man's nervous system, but only two short lines?

George had the temerity to dump them back home at Merrydown after 10.30 at night leaving a giggling rowdy entourage of four on the drive, reduced briefly to three as Susan raced down Green Lane following the coach. She was trying to return a case of lager that she had inadvertently purloined whilst unloading enough alcohol to float me to Tysoe.

Two Lines George? At 2 a.m. I gave up and went to bed, unable to get a word in edgeways, as they regaled each other, reliving every hysterical second in glorious side splitting detail. Had it not been for the fact that they were stone cold sober I would have thought George had been leading the Oxhill Bacchanalia Society in its pre-summer rites.

Perhaps you simply hoped it might be cancelled next year if you said very little but George they loved it. For you sir I have nothing but admiration, you clearly have a certain granite like quality about you that one can only aspire to.

Alan Hedley

[The Editor wishes it to be publicly known that the Two Lines repeatedly referred to above were NOT written by him. For the rest, no comment.]

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Last modified: July 03, 2006