So, another weekend, another Worcester. Despite coming from the countryside (albeit a long, long time ago) it's true to say I'm not exactly country-friendly.
Yes, I like looking at it, it's what you do with it I'm not sure about. I mean, what's the point of it, after you've admired the trees? Peace? Tranquillity? I may be in a minority, but I get plenty of that in London. Sitting at home with my kitchen doors open to the wilderness that passes for my garden with nature but a robin and a couple of pigeons away, I don't especially feel I'm in the middle of a huge city. The weight of millions of people does not press on me as I rest my foot on a flowerpot (full unfortunately not of the parsley I planted but with fag-ends, thanks to the younger daughter's Marlborough habit) and look at the wormy apples lying in the choppy sea of ill-cut grass and the hammock under the fig tree. That's all quite bucolic enough for me, thank you. I ride the bus to work and home again and so don't have to brave the cramped anonymity of the tube, so I feel very tranquil drawing the curtains at the end of the day, lighting the candles on my mantelpiece as I swap the flowerpot for the coffee table without the need for nature, nevertheless Worcester is full of the stuff as well as the man - and so it must be addressed.
'Shall we go out for a drive into the countryside? It's a lovely day.' he says after we've finally opened the curtains. And, darn it, it's true. The sky is bluer than a Tiffany's gift box. Just when you think it's safe to put on the 60 denier tights and the bloody sun is back.
Worcester Man has a very nice summer car (we'll get on to the winter car another day...) with lovely leather upholstery the colour of clotted cream and a roof that slides back into the boot at the touch of a button like a weapon being sheathed in an episode of Star Wars. This allows me to sit in the front wearing a headscarf and red sunglasses feeling like Grace Kelly. Or it did until his youngest son began to chuckle and, with shaking shoulders and a trembly voice, whispered 'little old lady' the last time I donned the scarf. I'm now feeling a lot less glamorous and a lot more Hilda Ogden.
However, the sun, the sun, the darn sun that won't go away and let you while the afternoon away in bed. Oh no. For reasons I don't understand, weather has to be enjoyed in the countryside. You can't, apparently, just ignore it and watch the latest episode of Mad Men inside with a window open. So, gamely, I get dressed - unfortunately I haven't got the country gear with me - no wellies (though Worcester man did offer to lend me a pair of his shoes which, distressingly, were only a little too large), so it's back into the spotted frock and the ballet slippers (mine, I hasten to add), cardie (I don't care if it's 23 degrees, it was a cold gray dawn back in London when I left), a smile, a dab of lipstick (absolutely essential for all visits to the great outdoors), then clothes on, roof off and so are we, gliding out of his parking lot, turning the corner so tightly I think we're up on two wheels and phwoar... accelerate.
I drive an old Renault Scenic. Accelerate isn't in its range of movements which tend to be stop, go and reverse (very, very gingerly). And it takes corners like it's wearing leg bells and dancing round a maypole. Furthermore, roads in the city tend to be straight. Roads in the country tend not to be. I have my foot on the invisible brake for much of the journey which I can't imagine Princess Grace did when Rainier was driving her round Monaco (though given her end, perhaps this is a thought I shouldn't pursue just now as the car levitates over a bump). This is not to say the consort isn't a great driver. (Worcester man - you are a wonderful driver.) I'm just not used to going faster than 20 miles an hour.
So, vroom vroom, seconds later, there we are. In the countryside. Surrounded by it. Green everywhere in every shade from forest to leaf. Trees, hedges, big trees, little trees, shrubs, fields, thickets (I don't actually know what a thicket is, but I'm hazarding a guess) hedgerows, meadows, commons, sheep, cows and more trees, many of them obscured by my hair since the scarf has been blasted off my hair by G-force.
Eventually he stops vroooooooooooooM and after I've removed my nose from the windscreen I see we are once again at the foot of the Malvern Hills from whse peaks small ant-like people are descending.
'Shall we walk a little?' He says, vaulting the door. (Okay, not quite, but there is a sort of implied vault as I struggle out of the cracks in the upholstery which are welded to my back. I try in vain to look like the sort of woman who strides through undergrowth in tweed.
I check my teeth for lipstick and look at the little specks high up on the hillside and worry. 'We're not going up there, are we?'
'No, no, darling, don't be silly (he probably didn't say darling, but what else is artistic license for if not to make the universe the way you want it rather than the way it is) we're going horizontally for a little meander through the woods.'
'Horizontal, not vertical? You're sure?'
'Just a wander, darling (lay it on thick, why don't you Marion)...'
Much relieved I follow him biblically across the field, up the rutted path, missing only a donkey and a bundle tied on a stick. However, we do still seem to be walking upwards. My calves suddenly know what their hitherto unguessed at purpose in life is, other than separating my knees from my ankles - something that may not last long given my wobbliness.
Not only are we walking uphill, but we appear to be at an angle. I look hopefully at the small clump of trees ahead. These would be the woods, no doubt. Once there, it will flatten out. All will be fine, Marion, I reassure myself as I slog on. At the woods there is momentary shade and momentary relief until we turn the corner and the path takes another bend. Again upwards.
'Erm, I thought you said it was horizontal?' I pant, feeling every one of the 23 degrees of sun beating down on me in my black cardigan, very thick black opaque tights and dark blue spotty dress.
'Oh, it is, it is (my treasure). It will soon straighten out.'
I trudge on, picking up the pace a little because I fear that if I slow down I will melt and start slipping backwards down the path like mercury which, I may have failed to mention is rocky and uneven and still unremittingly at a 45 degrees - this time of incline. And, lest you have forgotten, may I remind you what I am wearing on my feet? Ballet slippers. The soles are like wafers.
Another corner. Another hill.
I'm now sweating and so out of breath I can't speak. This is when Worcester man springing ahead like the little goat he is decides to enquire about Fay Weldon's book launch.
'How was it?' He asks.
'Boring.' I answer. Fay. Forgive me. It wasn't boring but anything else would have required an explanation and I didn't have enough room in my lungs.
'Gosh it's hot,' I pant as I reach the end of the path and see yet another upward ribbon of hell unfurling ahead, and so stop, pretending to admire the view I cannot see for blood pounding behind my eyes.
'Take off your sweater then (sweetness).'
This would be a good time to further describe the blue spotty dress. It's strapless. Sometimes it's a skirt. This will tell you something about the ease of up and down built into its design but I didn't think I would be wearing it for a verse and two choruses of 'Oh I love to go a-wandering'. I look like I'm going to a cocktail party.
We are being now being passed by overweight Brummies in hiking boots and those multi pocketed shorts which have water bottles and compasses hanging from them and feature toggles for three in one cutlery sets, all of whom lead dogs who are very, very friendly. Meanwhile I'm wearing ballet slippers and a straples skirt/dress. Only then, half way up the freaking mountain does Worcester look down and check out my footwear to see if it's suitable.
'Are they all right for walking (Precious)?' he asks.
In answer, I don't fall over. Or hit him. That's a yes.
However, it is hot. I take off the sweater and tie it round my waist. The ribboned straps of my AP bra bought for an entirely different sort of breathless activity glint in the sunshine. Another party of people in pastel trousers that sail above their Birkenstocked ankles, holding a slobbery spaniel walk towards us. Townie, I can hear them think. Actually Townie w***** would be closer to the mark.
Eventually we reach the summit. I collapse on a little hillock and survey the patchwork of fields as swallows swoop and dive around us. Yes, I agree with Worcester, it's beautiful - well worth the coronary. Blissful, magical, I lie flat on my back in the grass and try to look as if I often yomp up hills in a strapless frock. There's a man of about 80 already sitting there, his eyes painfully red rimmed, his knuckles swollen around a horn handled walking stick with a ruddy slap of veins on each cheek.
'Yer, I don't run up like I used to when I were a lad,' he tells us as I gasp. 'I takes it nice and slow these days.' I hazard a guess that he still got up faster than I did and with a great deal less perspiration and a great deal more style.
Thankfully the walk downhill is easier and we do, eventually, reach the fabled woods.
'Isn't it wonderful,' I gush as I gambol (oh yes, I can gambol as long as it's a descending gambol and the car park is in sight) through the dappled sunlight.
'Hmm, I suppose. Actually, to tell the truth, I hate trees.' says Worcester having walked me through a mile of them.
'I hate trees, darling.' I remind him.
At last we agree on something.
