“It’s as if the sluice gates have been opened down at West Bay”
In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg shares tales from her life in rural Dorset . . .
IN Lush Places, we’re lucky enough to have a piece of common land running along the edge of the village. Years ago, part of it was turned into a football pitch. There were problems with drainage but, more recently, these have been addressed. Thanks to a small army of volunteers, the pitch has been restored to its former glory.
Usually the field is alive with the sound of a lawnmower as someone on the rota gives it a good cut. At other times, you can hear the sound of a football being kicked and, in the mornings and evenings, dogs at play.
But today there’s a different sound as one of the volunteers gets married. The sound is of last-minute preparations as the barbecue is fired up and the bouncy castle is inflated.
Lucky for us, we’ve been invited to the reception on the football field, the wedding having taken place in the register office in town. All we have to do is turn up with chairs and something to drink.
I chose my outfit months ago, having found a very nice little silk dress and matching bolero jacket from the local hospice shop. I am an avid bargain hunter and will only buy clothes if they’re in the sale or from a charity shop.
Mr Grigg and I totter down the road to the football pitch, me in new wedgeheeled shoes bought for a fraction of their original price some weeks ago. He has brought shorts with him in case he gets too hot.
“Don’t you look lovely,” a friend says as I make my entrance on to the field and realise immediately that I am overdressed. Just as well I didn’t wear a hat.
I stand there, with my picnic chair over my arm and cool-box at my feet. There are people running around having fun and I look like I’m dressed for Ascot.
“I think I’ll go home and get changed,” I say quietly to Mr Grigg.
“Change?” he says in rather too loud a voice. “But you look lovely.”
I mutter something about not wanting my dress to smell of barbecue smoke and toddle off before any more people look at me.
I return, triumphant, in a red and white polka-dot dress I got from a fancydress shop in town. It’s a little Fifties number, and I rather like it, even though I’ve put on a bit of weight since I wore it last.
“That’s better,” my friend says. “You did look nice, but I know why you felt you needed to change it.”
So I’m sitting in my picnic chair, having a chat with my friend and then another woman from the village who has turned up in jeans.
“Didn’t I see you earlier in a different outfit?” she says.
“Possibly,” I say, trying to gloss over my embarrassment.
Then I feel it. The side zip comes unstuck and it’s as if the sluice gates have been opened down at West Bay. But rather than water gushing out, it’s flesh. I hold my arm carefully to my side.
“I’ve got to go home again and change,” I say to my friend.
“But why? You’ve only just got back here.”
I explain my predicament, to which the other person says that surely I can just clutch my arm to my side all afternoon and no-one will notice.
I raise my arm gently to show her the zip has broken and it’s open down to my waist.
“Ah,” she says. “Best you go home and get something else on then.”
So I make my way back home for a third time, Mr Grigg’s shorts clutched to my side to cover the gap. I return just as the hog roast is being served, wearing yet another dress.
“Third time lucky?” my friend says.
I sincerely hope so. n