Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

And how am I privy to this information, Prue? Why, Mr Baverstock told me himself! Bragged about it, no less, when he phoned me up to tell me that the tour was probably off, then airily offered the Tanners a guided walk around the church crypt instead (which — for the record — he hasn’t bothered asking Reverend Paul permission for, either!).

Ned Tanner has yet to get back to me on the matter.

LOT 9

Promise made: Rhona Brooks of Threadbare Cottage promised to put her extensive horticultural skills to work by offering a basic, Winter Garden Overhaul to any resident of BC who felt their garden might currently be in need of one.

Purchased by: The Jonty Weiss-Quinns at Saxonby Manor (yes, they did have a busy night, Prue. Sorry? What’s that strange and powerful aroma , you wonder? Could it be the pungent stench of Noblesse Oblige , perhaps? Or did someone just tread in a fresh cowpat?).

Amount paid: £25

Upshot: God . As soon as I even start to think about this situation, Prue, my blood literally begins to boil. I suppose this is because in the short time I have been living in Burley Cross I have developed a powerful admiration for the senior Ms Brooks, who strikes me as a fair and reasonable sort of female (not unlike yourself). Admittedly there’s always that gruff exterior to contend with (she can be a fearful old battle-axe), but underneath it — I’m convinced — beats the kindest and most Christian of hearts. It is this very Christian heart of hers, I fear, that has allowed the superficially brusque and irascible Ms Brooks to fall prey to a false sense of ‘obligation’ to the Weiss-Quinns (which I feel sure is having a seriously deleterious effect on her physical and psychological well-being). When Ms Brooks promised a Winter Garden Overhaul at the auction, she surely can’t have had any inkling that the garden she would soon feel duty-bound to ‘overhaul’ would be one of over seven and a half acres (possessing 230-odd foot of yew hedges in desperate need of ‘work’). And all this for the princely sum of £25! While I don’t doubt that Ms Brooks’s constitution is relatively robust, she is hardly in the first flush of youth, and I have almost lost count of the number of times that I have chanced to see her in the Manor’s grounds (on my daily perambulations with darling Chloe), perched precariously atop a ladder, brandishing some shears, or trundling home through the village after dark, plainly exhausted, pushing her squeaking wheelbarrow full of tools. I have tried to talk to her about it, but she simply brushes me off. ‘I like to think I’m as good as my word, Mr St John,’ is all she’ll volunteer on the issue. I’ve also had several ‘tête-à-têtes’ with the Weiss-Quinns, but they treat my interference with the standard combination of fastidious hauteur and lofty amusement. ‘Oh, but Rhoda just loves to potter around the grounds all day,’ they say, or — worse still — ‘We’re sure she’d be dreadfully offended if we asked her to stop before she’s completed the job.’

For the record: their old, full-time gardener, George Swinbourne, retired in June, after fifty years’ service, without a proper send-off. And they still haven’t forked up the £25 yet.

LOT 10

Promise made: Mrs Tirza Parry (widow) at Hursley End, Lamb’s Green, promised a piece of her handmade jewellery to be ‘created, to order’.

Purchased by: Mr Conan Hopkiss Jnr, 111 Wellington Drive, Denver, Colorado.

Amount paid: £2,175

Upshot: Yes, Prue, I know. Utterly, utterly bizarre. But then it gets still stranger!

All of the promises for the auction were listed (by yourself) on the BC Village website for ten or so days before the auction took place (‘to give people a general idea of the kinds of things that were up for grabs’).

Towards the end of this ten-day period (just after you left), an email was received, from America, offering £2,175 for Lot 10, sight unseen! Well, initially I thought there must have been some kind of a mistake (I swear I thought she made those awful monstrosities out of Play-Doh!), or that this was simply a cruel prank. So I got back to Mr Hopkiss Jr myself (online) and it transpired that he was a ‘keen collector’ of Mrs Parry’s work and extremely determined that the new ‘piece’ should be his! I didn’t mention this extraordinary communication to anyone, thinking it would be more exciting to announce the bid on the night in front of a live audience. This was a mistake on my part — a big mistake. I made the announcement — to audible gasps (and the odd snigger, naturally) — then was astonished when Mrs Parry stood up on hearing the bidder’s name (and seeing his cheque, which he had already sent, sure in the knowledge that his bid wouldn’t be bettered), declaring that Mr Hopkiss Jr was ‘a pest’, and that it was ‘inconceivable’ that she should make a piece of work for him. She then turned to the assembled mass and asked, ‘Isn’t anybody going to make me a better offer?’ Silence. ‘For a Tirza Parry original?’ she exclaimed (as though perfectly astonished by their reticence). I tried to move things along (as auctioneer) by suggesting to Mrs Parry that we might ‘discuss the issue afterwards’. This we did. Mrs Parry remained adamant. It seems that Mr Conan Hopkiss Jnr has been collecting Mrs Parry’s work for several years, and that his appetite for it is so great that he has effectively ‘hoovered it all up’ from the market — something Mrs Parry seemed to find deeply objectionable. In fact she repeated this phrase — ‘hoovered it all up!’ — with expansive gestures several times in her odd, Bulgarian accent, while stamping her white, cowboy-booted foot (I must confess that I find the woman absolutely terrifying). I asked her if she would just ‘think about it’ for a few days, and reminded her that the auction was ‘for charity, after all’. Her immediate response was to tell me to ‘drop dead’ and then to storm out of the hall! She has refused to speak to me ever since. Twice , she has slammed her door in my face! After the auction I had taken the precaution of giving the cheque to Wincey (our lovely Treasurer) for safekeeping, but as my confidence in bringing Mrs Parry around began to falter I asked for it back (intent on returning it). Wincey then confessed that she had already banked the damn thing, naively believing that Mrs Parry would ‘inevitably feel morally obliged to fulfil her promise’. I have consequently put Reverend Paul on the case (although I don’t hold out much hope — I believe Mrs Parry is a passionate atheist). He has promised to visit Mrs Parry this very evening, so I just hope and pray some good will come out of his intervention.

LOT 11

Promise made: Tammy Thorndyke (at The Old Hall), promised a beginner’s course of five private Kundalini Yoga lessons (a type of yoga at which she apparently excels).

Purchased by: Shoshana Baverstock (at The Retreat) was delighted to buy them.

Amount paid: £23

Upshot: I couldn’t really see how this transaction might go awry, Prue (more fool me!). But after only two sessions I had Tammy Thorndyke banging on my door, in floods of tears, late at night (well, some time after nine, at any rate), begging me to think of some way — any way — to get her out of the promise (she even said she would refund Shoshana’s money and contribute a further £23 to the charity herself to make up for the loss). And the reason for this sudden reticence on Tammy’s part? Shoshana’s eczema! Tammy had developed a sudden, extreme horror of it! Apparently Shoshana insisted on doing the sessions in just a bra top and g-string (she would’ve done them nude given half a chance) and Tammy had become increasingly obsessed by the idea that Shoshana was ‘shedding skin’ on her shagpile carpet (‘I’ve tried vacuuming,’ she said, ‘but it just doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough …’). I explained to Tammy that eczema wasn’t remotely contagious (and Shoshana’s eczema’s hardly that bad, anyhow. I’ve seen her almost naked myself on countless occasions — who hasn’t? — and there’s just the odd rough patch behind her knees and inside her elbows; hardly anything to write home about), but Tammy wouldn’t be convinced. She said the thought of Shoshana’s dead skin becoming ‘embedded in my shagpile’ was making her ‘physically ill’ (she did have quite a deathly pallor). ‘But how on earth are we to get out of this promise without severely hurting Shoshana’s feelings?’ I asked. Tammy didn’t have a clue. After some lengthy consideration, I decided that it might be a good idea if I approached Shoshana personally, telling her that I had heard ‘really great things’ about the health benefits of Kundalini Yoga on a recent repeat of an old episode of Oprah , and that I was ‘desperate’ to try it out for myself, so would she mind terribly if I offered a contribution to the AOP Charity Fund and joined the classes? Oh, and then if — on that basis — we could move the location of the classes from The Old Hall to Tiddlers? (I told Shoshana that this was because I had bad circulation and The Old Hall would be ‘way too draughty’ for me to withstand in my Lycra.) Shoshana promptly responded by telling me that ‘Kundalini Yoga is a huge waste of time’, and that Tammy ‘doesn’t have the first idea how to teach it’. She said she was desperate to get out of the sessions but hated the idea of hurting Tammy’s feelings. So there I was, Prue, stuck between a rock and a hard place. I therefore persisted with my scheme (in the hope of sparing the feelings of both parties), and the next session was duly held in my cramped study at Tiddlers (Friday last): me, resplendent in my yellow striped cycling shorts and cap-sleeved tee struggling to grapple with the many intricacies of the Downward Dog as a small cassette recorder piped out the tinny sounds of trickling water and harp (not an easy union, Prue, believe me). Shoshana made yet another trip to the bathroom and Tammy finished a short lecture on The Importance of The Perineum, relit the strawberry incense, declared feelingly, ‘Without fresh air, even the finest fire dies,’ or ‘No one can love you, unless you love you,’ (I forget which), lay down on her back and commenced a frenzied interlude of Pelvic Bouncing (as I gently averted my tormented eyes). One down, Prue, two to go… May the Sweet Lord have Mercy on my Soul.