The Cotswolds are in the first throes of autumn. Red and gold are edging in on a landscape flush with apples and blackberries. The air is crisp and log fire scented. Friday we lit our stove for the first time using the dregs from last season’s wood pile. The warmth lulled husband into abandoning plans to attend the charity barn striptease in favor of another mistress: the debut of Little Britain in America, the new HBO series.
Despite this false start, the autumn social calendar is filling up. It kicks off this afternoon with a harvest church service and tea in G.P. We’ll be back there later in the month for a Friday night bingo extravaganza. Next week our local inn re-opens after a scandalous closure several weeks back that saw the tenants abandoning the place at 4am. It’s been taken over by a chef with a well regarded pub in the “big city” of Cheltenham, so expectations are high. Later in October the manager from the wine bar’s wholesale business is hosting a wine tasting in the village hall, and the hotel further down the road restarts their Sunday night old movie series in their pink sofa-ed private cinema. And the butcher has promised to source a Thanksgiving turkey for me.
Even London holds some promise. Husband’s new job is starting to pay dividends in the form of theater tickets. But the jury’s still out on whether or not the West End will hold up against bingo.
