Missing...

A rather sad telephone call from George. Patrick has gone and so has the microwave. George and Patrick have been together forever (my predecessor would remark that they probably entered the Ark two-by-two), though George and the microwave only for the past couple of years.

It is not known for certain that Patrick and the microwave left together but Geo. is minded that the two events are connected. I suggested to Geo. that he might wish to involve the police at even this early stage. This he did not care to consider as the double theft of heart and cooker would be - I can see his point - hard to convey to an unknown and uncomprehending voice in a remote control centre. (Had PC Williams still been on the local beat he would have at once grasped the full significance of Geo.'s complaint, but when Williams retired last year he was not replaced in person, we being offered just a telephone contact number to a far away station that never once has shown its human face in our village. All in the name of progress naturally!)

Geo. is naturally devastated and, at present, inconsolable. My few words of succour may have been of some use, though I did struggle to think of any Gospel event by which one might link Geo.'s pain to the Lord's plan. According to him [Geo. that is and not the Lord] there were no warning signals, no signs of discord, no unexplained absences that might explain Patrick's doing a bunk. And as for the microwave Geo. is at a complete loss to fathom a single reason why his lover should decamp with a cooker!

H and I reflected on their situation over a decent port and, although not strictly germane to the current crisis, opined that the Geo./Patrick liaison, as a thing in itself, signified a peculiar and rather laudable rural tolerance of what in essence should be held unusual, perhaps unwanted or even, in some orthodox circles, highly immoral.

You would not be short of conversation if you opened up in the Dragon about the iniquitous state of the country as a whole and urban environments in particular. Tales of city sin are a constant source of opprobrium and dismay in equal measure: "Never like that when I were young", "End of all civilisation as we know it" - that sort of thing.

Yet when it comes to what happens here in our own patch, you would not find stronger supporters of the rights of individuals to live their lives as best suits them so long as - a standard and sensible proviso - no one else gets hurt or has to be involved if they choose not to. For example, our local carpenter, odd jobber and all round fixer of broken fences or chimneys is called Sam. Sam is quiet, but Sam is strong, out in all weathers doing good work and much loved by all. Sam's evenings are spent in the Dragon having always no more and never fewer than five pints of Firebreath before returning home to his Hilary.

Only the rank outsiders - that is those who moved in less than twenty years ago - don't know that Sam is actually Samantha. Sam grew up in the village as a tomboy and simply carried on being a tomboy until he became a tom-man. That has never once been "an issue" - as Old Tom would call it - it's just what happens.

But were some smart Johnny to challenge them and say "So you support gay rights then don't you?" he'd as like as not be drummed out of the village and, more like than not, take with him a muck full of verbal if not physical abuse for his filthy mind. (Bit like the old folk at the lunch club. Offer them quiche and they scorn it, but tell 'em it's just egg and bacon pie and it'll be taken in a trice. H learned that one the hard way!)

I must pop down the Dragon in the morning to see how Geo. is doing and whether he has any news. H's suggestion that I should offer to clean the pumps for the duration of his bereavement lest the beer go off again may be sound, but hardly apposite to the magnitude of the personal grief!