For days we have been looking forward to tonight’s first meeting of the Women’s Rural Institute for 2011 There is nothing quite like turning out at 7.30pm, and trudging up the hill surrounded by freezing fog, to sit in the cavernous village hall waiting patiently through proceedings to finally be rewarded (and defrosted) by a hot mug of tea. I particularly remember, with fondness, listening to the President reading the minutes of the previous meeting – and then the minutes of the various other meetings in the region. Riveting stuff.
Tonight’s speaker is a local fella who is going to talk to us about digital photography. The precise details on the content of his lecture are not clear, but we have not been asked to bring our cameras. I just hope I will be able to understand his dialect, otherwise it could be a long evening.
I am not, technically speaking, a member of the WRI as I have not paid any dues. I did point this out when I was included in their Christmas dinner - I was informed that I was considered an honorary member - but as it seems there is now an expectation that will attend the meetings, I think I must ensure that I formalise my membership. As it is a dwindling group (see note above about reading of minutes, for explanation of poor attendance), I expect they will be pleased to swell their numbers – and coffers – so hopefully I will sail through any entry requirements.
Tonight there are three competitions to enter, each of which presents a dilemma: My favourite necklace, Flower of the Month and Best Winter Scene Photo. I know jolly well the sort of elaborate necklaces that will be on show and hardly think my grey pearls will in any way stand up to competitive scrutiny. As far as I can tell all flowers are currently under snow although I do have an orchid surviving from a birthday bouquet which I could take and which might win on the basis of being the only flower anyone could muster. As for a winter photo, I think I could cheat a little and take one of a typical Australian Christmas scene with picnickers basking on a sunny beach, surrounded by seafood, beer and champers.
Whilst I am fretting about my competition entry, another invitation for this evening is extended. Today is Mahri’s birthday and she has invited Jeanette and I for dinner. We are expected at 5.30pm.
“Och, I’d rather go to Mahri’s for dinner,” says Jeanette. “I didna really fancy the WRI, it will be so cold and we will be too rushed to eat our tea and be there in time for the start.”
Relieved at being let off the competition hook, I point out the flaw in her logic.
“Mahri and Gilmore’s place will be freezing. They have been waiting for three weeks for the gas delivery for their heating. Wear an extra jumper and pair of sox ,” I say.
Jeanette, ever the optimist, says she is pretty certain the log fire will be going. But Gilmore never feels the cold. Mahri, therefore, lives in a state of semi-frozenness. No wonder she is to be seen running through the village most days. It is the only way she can keep warm. I wrap up a thick pair of fancy tights for her gift, at least they may help keep her legs snug, especially as she has a penchant for mini-skirts.
Rugged up in cashmere sweater, scarf, cardigan, thick socks and a pair of shoes to change into out of my boots (remembering how one of us disgraced ourselves on Gilmore’s newly cleaned carpet at their Christmas party, I am prepared! All for nought as it turns out because their gas was delivered yesterday and the house is blissfully warm. The cats – Whisky and Haggis – are squabbling for prime position on the catbed under the radiator. Although there would be room for both of them, Whisky is not giving up a centimetre of his new luxury and biffs him away with his paws. Haggis abandons the fight and goes to sulk on the sideboard, and sits, eyeing up the exotic fish in the tank with a hopeful look on his face.
Momentarily we all feign sorrow at missing the WRI meeting.
“It’s an odd thing,” says Mahri.
“The WRI only meets once and month, and I vairy rarely go out of an evening, but I always seem to have something else to go to on those nights.” She says this with such an air of innocence, one cannot question this strange coincidence.
Instead, we toast her birthday in champagne and quickly forget those poor cold souls in the village hall, struggling to work out their f-stop from their pixels and who will be lucky to manage a cup of tea. We settle in for a long, chummy evening of food, wine and chatter, cosy in front of the blazing fire.
“Did you have a nice day?” I ask Mahri while she opens her presents.
“Yes,” she says. “I went swimming.”
Mad, these Scots, quite mad.
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