I’m an unashamed Archers fan. But for the first time in 50 years I’m exasperated by the storyline. A fortnight ago Usha, who has no ball sense, is justifiably rejected as a potential player by Ambridge’s cricket captain. Even she admits she’s useless. Nevertheless, bleating ‘sexist’ and ‘age-ist’, she leads a Lysistrata-style boycott, not of the marital bed, but of the practice nets. The women down bats and walk. Really! It’s enough to make you ashamed to be a feminist. And then last week the captain offers her the job of ‘inspirational team coach’. Laughable. Except for some reason I don’t laugh. I fume.
Last weekend’s perfect foretaste, fingers crossed, of summer, had husband John dusting off his 1600cc Harley trike (rudely called his mobility scooter by his children). It’s perfect for an old lady like me — the leather pillion seat wraps cosily round my back and hips, and it feels stable and safe. Also, since it’s classed like a Reliant Robin, you don’t have to wear a helmet, which means you can smell the blossom in the hedgerows or the catkins overhead. At sundown we growl gently through the smiling Cotswolds, marvelling at the lambs in the fields, sun slanting through the trees, hot-air balloons above. Oh, to be in England.
I remember when my children were toddlers they’d have tantrums in the supermarket, but let them loose in the countryside and there’d not be a tear all day. Now my son and daughter-in-law, with three under eight, come down from London, sometimes with two or three other families. Last week we had 14 children belting round the garden, making dens, riding bikes and climbing anything that could be climbed. Two little boys played chess for hours.
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