A yokel comes to town

I went on the Countryside March in my capacity as vice-chairman of the South West Terrier, Lurcher, Ferret and Family Dog club and on a more personal note because I think it is supremely un-English for a government to try to make us good by an Act of Parliament. On the march I wore a red England shirt, which I also wore to the party I went to the night before.

The party was a very up-market party on the roof-top terrace of a large house in Kensington. Everyone there was clever, barristers mostly, and beautifully dressed. Our host, for example, wore an iridescent two-tone double-breasted suit. There was quiche and bite-sized sausages to eat and plenty of champagne chilling in the Smeg fridge. The conversation was bright, witty and ill-informed. In my England shirt I felt like the hick up from the country that I was. When I said I was up from Devon to represent a dog and ferret club on the Countryside March, they thought I was making a joke.

About midnight it got quite chilly, and the actress I was talking to went inside to look in our host’s wardrobe for something warm to put on. She came back flourishing this short PVC dress with large buckles on it – fetish gear for games in the bedroom. She’d discovered it on a hanger in the wardrobe and returned to tease our host with it. Everyone cheered at the sight of it. Personally, I thought what a lovely little dress it was, one I wouldn’t have minded wearing myself given the right circumstances. But our host, hitherto impeccably genial and self-deprecating, suffered a massive sense of humour failure. He was so embarrassed, and then angry, he told us all to leave, which we did, rather sheepishly.