De bas en haut

Teaching Practice Friend got married on Saturday. A marriage always feels like losing someone, nothing to be happy about. During the service, hail showered like a bad piece of electro-acoustic music against the windows of an ordinary rural church, but cleared away for us to stand shivering on the village green for photographs for as short an interval as politeness could excuse, before we sloped off to the pub.

My friend has married into the minor landowning classes of Westmorland. We sat down with elderly dowager-looking women in grey, ruched hats, one of whom's cups runneth over like a pair of double chins in an over-optimistic dress. I caught some sour notes of complaint towards the waiting staff, pronounced with the hauteur of old money; and as they turned graciously away from feinting them, I saw the inward-breathing, get thee behind me, biting of lips, of the minimum waged staff, who showed better and quieter manners than any of the endowed ladies of The Lodge.

Luckily, me and Trina got sat next to the only other middleaged couple in the room; one of these couples who, from one fairly ordinary middle class job, have enough money to do up half a redundant primary school near Kirkby Lonsdale and to fund the woman's fannying about with what she called "worn art in felt". "What, Fuzzy Felt?" said Trina. I was glad of them though. They were our saviours.

Kirsty is down south raving, Chemical Brothers and Justin Robertson headlining, and she's booked today off for recovery. I got the girls off to school and popped back to mine to put the recycling out, such is my desire to make sure that my onion tops and beetroot peel don't end up mouldering indistinctly on a tip in Fleetwood.

On the mat was a letter with no stamp. The bailiff informs me that "I will re-attend at your premises on 23/1/15 and may REMOVE goods even in your absence. This will incur additional costs of £110.00 plus disbursements for which you may be liable ... FAILURE TO CONTACT ME WILL BE INTERPRETED AS WILFUL REFUSAL TO PAY."

I have sent them a letter. It's written in a long-practised tone, poised between politeness, a gentle indication that I am aware of the main points of bailiff law, and a hint of contrition. I wouldn't worry, except that Morgane is here now, and I'd rather her not open the door to a bailiff.