Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

WE'RE ALL PROUD OF DOROTHY

   Arraminta came home for half term. She looks peaky to me. Cook made her favourite chicken for dinner but she was quite rude about it and announced that she's become a vegetarian, then flounced off without even asking to get down from the table. I have told Crichton that it’s probably her hormones, which prevented a scene. That kind of talk usually stops him in his tracks. She spent her last exit with Candida Bellmarsh and her family which rather let us off the hook. They live near Bicester. Mrs B seemed charming when I rang , and she told me that Candida’s older brother is in the fire service, so I can put my mind at rest on that score. I'm so pleased that A is making friends at last but it doesn't seem to have cheered her up. Quite the reverse.

   Dorothy’s funeral went off rather well all things considered. The family had hoped for a cremation but in view of the metal plates in her head, they were advised to go for a burial as the safer option.

The church was packed… Brownies and Guides in abundance and all with flags…but we managed to squeeze in at the back next to Mrs Galdstone from ‘The Tannery’. Such a sweet old dear and her halitosis is really only a problem if one forgets to turn away during the hymns.

I arrived all in black, with Crichton sporting a crepe armband, to find Caro’s cousin Neville had invoked the ‘wear something colourful rule.’ Thankfully I had a pink scarf in one pocket and in the other I found the rainbow badge that Jerome brought back from a trip to Amsterdam last Easter. For some reason, it’s printed with the word PRIDE. Well, we were all very proud of Dorothy in our own way and it seemed just the thing for Crichton to pin on his lapel. It won admiring glances from several mourners, not least Brig. and Mrs Parker.

Three hymns. 

All things Bright and Beautiful -  ghastly

Lord of the Dance – Dorothy always loved the tango

Gladly the Cross Eyed Bear – accompanied by sniggering from all quarters, especially the Brownies.

   The curate did a fine job on her eulogy as the rector is away yet again. A conference this time, or so he says. (It’s my belief he’s just putting his feet up somewhere in Benidorm)

I expect I shall get used to female clergy eventually. There’s no malice in the woman so far as I can tell but I couldn’t warm to her somehow. I think it’s her shoes. Velcro fastenings never work with liturgical dress imo. Anyway, I hope when my turn comes, they can find a proper man to do the honours.

   Before the committal, six Brownies performed a charming tribute to Dorothy’s life, through the medium of dance. Who would have thought that she had been both a dog breeder and a Tiller Girl?

   We returned home after a tinned tuna vol-au-vent and tepid cup of tea, to find that Brexit had made a nest out of Crichton’s new fleece and chewed off one sleeve.  I have washed it and hung it beneath the mountain of coats in the hall cupboard. He may not notice.

Crichton comments

   So that’s Dorothy six feet under. A very strange affair indeed, with execrable hymn singing and children dancing around the grave. Rather druidical I thought.

Plenty of sausage rolls afterwards…I'm sure that's what she would have wanted. I wonder what I have done to offend Brig Parker. He was decidedly ‘off’ with me when I passed him a sandwich.