Lady Amanda French resides in Millthwaite with her gilet collection and Rupert the miniature Schnauzer; she designs gardening gloves and enjoys the occasional bruschetta with friends …
I simply must share with you the most extraordinary example of community spirit that one had seen in a long time darlings. Before you ask, no it isn’t some dreary act of heroism or helpfulness; Holly Willoughby is cheerfully crushing those into sentimental tedium quite enough without one joining in, Surprise Surprise indeed, not without Cilla it isn’t.
I digress.
No, it is the tale of all those delightful villagers who turned out in support of the village Christmas lights. They didn’t demand a high profile and talented celebrity (like one’s personal favourite, Peter Andre) attend to press the button in a blaze of publicity. They didn’t even demand a button. Really, they are a very content bunch.
A whole day of events was dedicated to “the big switch on” as I overheard several excited people referring to it. They started with food and drink stalls, arts and crafts stalls and a Christmas Tree Festival* (*one does not know what a Christmas Tree Festival is, so please do not ask one, it will only embarrass us both). There was a display of the village’s physical prowess by the local morris dancers and martial arts academy, both of whom appeared to have undergone specialist training in the art of stick fighting and were splendid at it. It took me back to my youth darlings, brandishing a birch stick and shouting “en garde” at poor old Henry the butler when he brought one’s high tea; he dropped the tray more than once, Mummy had to dismiss him in the end.
By 5pm the village was a frenzy of excitement. The sun had accommodated our event by disappearing and leaving us in darkness, lit only by all the Christmas lights that had already been switched on without ceremony. A jolly rock choir sang us some lovely tunes and then the village’s brass band played some carols. All of the villagers gathered, blocking the road and packing the pavements, waiting in eager anticipation of the big moment. Then Santa came and the countdown started.
“Ten!” We all shouted at the tops of our voices. Then: “Nine!” Followed by: “Eight!” And … You get the picture.
When we reached “one” it happened: the rope of multi-coloured light bulbs thrown across the left half of one non-Christmas tree* (*presumably not invited to the Christmas Tree Festival) were switched on and the whole village cheered with delight! “Hurrah!” we declared at the sight of less light bulbs than one might find in the average fridge department of an electrical goods store.
Then Santa went to fetch his sleigh and the rest of us went to the public house. I took it upon myself to interview some members of the crowd; I have edited out the profanities for my more sensitive readers:
“I can’t believe it’s f@@king December; I’m not ready to play Christmas carols.” Band member.
“I particularly enjoyed the accompaniment of glow sticks that sounded like cats being strangled.” Band member.
“The left side of the tree was fantastic.” Village person.