Crossed Wires in the Village

Hilary has an accent that would cut glass. Even if I heard her speak anywhere near the Piccadilly Line I would find it so. But to hear it here in the Village is quite another matter. It’s as foreign here as the sands of Arabia would be. Hilary has dwelled in the Village for seven years, but now she’s desperate to return to England. She misses her culture and the English way of doing things. Hilary is hilarious and within five minutes I am in stitches listening to her stories about how very strange things are here in the Village. It was Blue, in fact, who brought Hilary into my life.

Hilary lives with her son, Jeremy, and Jeremy invited me and Blue to meet his mother and his dog, Bojangles, over the weekend. I promised I would call and it was only on Sunday evening that I remembered that promise. So I put Blue on the lead and walked the 100 or so paces to Hilary’s house on the estate. The two dogs disliked each other on sight and the loudest barking match ensued. I hastily withdrew much to Hilary’s relief but not before I had given her the loaf of brown bread that Alex said I should bring. We are trying to eat healthily and someone gave us the loaf which would not be eaten. It was either that or a box of out of date ginger thins. I opted for the unusual visiting present of a loaf of bread (fresh of course). And so this morning, Hilary appeared at our door with an M & S quiche as a return gift I guess, which she advised to put in the freezer. We came off best there I think – loaf versus quiche, hmmm no contest.

Over coffee Hilary informed me that in England she had lived in a small close, not dissimilar from the estate where we are now. There, she said, they had fallen into the pleasant habit of having drinks and nibbles on Sunday at noon with the neighbours before lunch. It developed into an informal rota and was generally a good way to keep in touch and what have you. So when Hilary and Jeremy moved to the village she decided that this would be a good tradition to maintain. When they had settled in she sent out her invites to her nearest neighbours for Sunday nibbles before lunch. So far, so good, except, that all her guests were still there at 5 o’clock, more than worse for wear. Her guests were clearly in need of greater sustenance than nibbles as their sobriety had seriously waned. Poor Hilary had to resort to some pizzas in the freezer in order to redeem some semblance of order and the tradition of Sunday drinks was unceremoniously abandoned. So, here we have a case of crossed wires and cultural differences. To the rational English, drinks and nibbles before lunch mean precisely that. Lunch would be no later than two,(in your own house), presence would not exceed two hours and drinks drunk would be no greater than two. To the Irish, drinks and nibbles before lunch would have been quite different. All that they would have heard in the invitation would have been drinks and may have assumed that the invite actually included lunch. And it would have been rude to leave before all available drink had been consumed and that you had regaled your host with tall tales and shown what good craic you are. An occasion such as this is a test of English hospitality to see what they provide and the guests likely thought the nibbles very poor fayre indeed.

Hilary remained both undaunted and in the Village and did make many friends here and engaged as fully as she could in village life. But after seven years, enough is enough. She misses her country and their ways and she wants to go home. Safe home, Hilary. It was more than a pleasure to meet you. And yes, I would love to go back to your house, before you leave, without Blue this time, for that glass of wine and see your garden.