Quarter to eight, Kemble station in the middle of Wiltshire or Gloucestershire, or Somewhereshire conveniently near Worcester's office which, confusingly, is about an hour's drive from Worcester. Confused? Me too. I just get in the car and eventually am dropped off like a hurriedly kissed parcel at this funny little station in a rural backwater where I huddle in the draughty cold until a train arrives that I can afford to ride.
The platform is oily with rain and deserted when I arrive so I huddle in the waiting room which contains two leather benches and an old man with a flat combover that falls over his eyes like a salute. He's wearing a Mustard cord jacket with leather patches and a Rupert the Bear style scarf. His name, I soon discover, is Godfrey. A tall woman with a worn face and aristocratic messy hair strides in like she's just walked off the hockey field in an over 70s match. She sits next to me and picks up a copy of Metro. We all three sit in a shivering silence broken only by the ticking of the clock, as slowly the station fills up with suits.
Then, as though there's been an invisible signal, Hockey Grandma lowers her newspaper and addresses Godfrey as if he had just that second arrived and not been sitting in silence for the last fifteen minutes crossing and uncrossing his legs.
'How are you Godfrey?'
'Well, Araminta, and you?' (Okay, yes I admit it, her name wasn't Araminta, but it should have been. And actually he wasn't called Godfrey either but I don't want to reveal his real name lest he is a retired high court judge and he sues me.)
'I haven't seen you for ages, have I? Mmm, not since, let me see, Richard's seventy fifth birthday party, was it?'
'Actually, no. I didn't go.'
'Rally. You didn't? How peculiah. I'm sure we've met somewhere recently. I know, it was at that concert. You did go to the concert, didn't you.'
'That's right, yes,'
'I thought I'd seen you there in the audience.'
'No, actually, I was playing. On stage.'
'Ah, of course you were. Mmm, now I remembah. You played American Pie. Lovely. It's such an anthem, isn't it.'
'Fraid so. I don't know what people are doing for anthems these days. The young don't have songs like this any more. Have you heard Jules Holland recently?'
'Jules who?'
'Dismal, short fellow, plays the piano late at night on the television...'
'Ah no. I rarely watch television.'
'Well you're not missing anything. Frightful. Simply frightful.'
The two fall silent.
'Playing much tennis these days?' She asks, eventually, when it's clear the subject of music has been exhausted. She speaks like Hyacinth Bucket with a slight tremble to her voice on the high notes, of which there are many trilling through her sentences.
'Not as often as I would like. I'm on the reserve list so they call on me when someone else drops out.'
'Well Arthur isn't playing any more, not since he had his triple bypass. You should get a regular game now.'
'I'm not always free. I have my book club every other Tuesday.'
'Oh Book Clubs!' She shudders like a horse being confronted by a particularly high jump. 'I don't want to discuss books in any sort of formal arrangement. Can't think of anything more horrid. I already read quite enough without being forced to plod through some awful book that someone else has chosen.'
'Quite right. We've read some stinkers, absolute stinkers. Can't think how any of them get published. The last book was frightful rubbish.' I strain my ears to hear the name of the offensive book but he doesn't mention it.
'Have you seen Arthur and Trudy lately?'
'No, I can't bear their hideous Pope dinners. Some of those medieval Popes were frightful so we do rather sweep those events under the table and give the Pope dinners a miss. Especially with Charles being Catholic. He does rather dread the whole thing.'
I'm transfixed at the idea of a Pope dinner. What on earth do they do? Dress up in purple? My mind flits helplessly back to Bergamo where I stood longingly in front of a shop window filled with religious paraphenalia with white Papal vestments as a centrepiece (Roman Catholics should probably stop reading this blog about now) toying with the idea of getting Worcester to buy them. He merely smiled nervously and backed away from the window. Darn it. But Pope dinners. Amazing. Maybe living in the country wouldn't be such a bad thing after all, I think.
'How's Caroline by the way?' Godfrey has changed the subject before I get too carried away.
'A bit creaky, but not bad considering she's thirteen now.'
Thirteen? I'm perplexed until I realise that Godfrey has just asked after Araminta's dog. My perspective on country life takes a swift nose dive.
'I rarely come to the station this early but it's terribly social isn't it?' Says Godfrey.
'Mm, yes, terribly social.'
'Indeed. People say it's terribly social but I hadn't realised just how social.'
'I usually take the earlier train, but that's not quite as social.'
'Mmm....'
'Well we really must see each other some time,' Godfrey harumphs.
'Quite, well yes, no doubt we will. We'll run into one another somewhere.' Araminta is not going to commit herself.
'Give my regards to Charles,' says Godfrey then takes his leave, striding off to the far end of the platform to await the delayed 9.18 to Paddington where he has announced he likes to sit in the quiet carriage. So he can work.
I watch him leave rather sadly, wondering if I could follow him and get more details about the dress code for the Pope dinners.
Sigh.
You see, I have just the book for it.
published by McSweeney's this month and distributed by Pedantic Press
Get your copy today and let me know when the dinner is...
