Ambridge is covered in a fine, or not so fine, layer of human excrement! Yes, this month sewage worked its way up through the downstairs shower drains on the Beechwood estate. It gurgled and fountained its way out of the lavatories. It spat itself, horrendously, out of the kitchen sinks. It washed in a great wave through the yard at Bridge Farm. And it gushed and eddied into the dairy, where Helen, Clarrie and Susan dashed about, piling up cheese from lower shelves to higher. Bridge Farm is an organic producer. But not usually quite this organic.
The culprit is the local water firm. It is the now familiar story of sewage dumped into a river after heavy rain. The Beechwood people are now dispersed while the dehumidifiers hum and the insurance “journey” begins. Joy and Mick are housesitting the palatial Shangri-la of Home Farm, now owned by mysterious City banker types; Azra the doctor and her kids are at the Snells’ B&B. Somehow, everyone is taking this in their stride. How are they managing this? Once, I found a giant spider in my hair, which I realised, too late, had been hunkered down in my hairbrush. A friend remarked, “Literally the worst thing has now happened.” True, it was pretty bad. I shiver to recall it. But it was definitely not the worst thing that could happen. Everything being covered in shit, though, is pretty high up the league table. A cursory glance at local authority advice on what to do should this happen to you (and I pray it never does) suggests broadly that you should run screaming for the hills. Hazmat suits and goggles, the disposal of clothing even remotely relating to the cleanup work, the chucking of the tools you have used to clean up, are strongly recommended. The smell lingers for a long long time. At this point, no one wants to visit the Bridge Farm tea room – now whiffing of disinfectant rather than the other stuff – and who can blame them?
All I can say is that if Ambridge, in its state of shit-inundation, is offering itself up as a metaphor for the state of the wider world, then it is pretty much spot on.
In other news, if other news can be said to exist, Harrison, the local copper, has left for his mysterious assignment up north while his partner Fallon cooks in the Bull, a temporary job that may yet become permanent since feckless Wayne, her dad and the regular chef, has taken a regular gig playing the guitar in a bar in Panama. Front row seats for the coming US takeover of the canal, I guess.
