Ruth: Sooo huuuge.
Put it away, lad. She's seen bigger ones in the barnyard.
Seven years ago (a hideous gulf of time, but shoving that to one side) it was reading week and I was in the front seat of a car being driven across Denmark by a fellow British student, with two American students on the same course in the back. It was Sunday morning, rather misty, and we did Jutland no disservice by ignoring the dripping scenery in favour of the Archers Omnibus on long wave. Especially considering the morning’s content.
Picture a dark, confined space. A group of men initiate an eleven year old boy into a mysterious art.
“Take a good grip. Don’t be nervous. I remember my first time, I was afraid I’d do myself an injury. Now, pull firmly like this.” And so on for some time, until it becomes apparent that Christopher Carpenter is learning bell-ringing.
The scene changes. A sobbing woman bids a Medea-like farewell to her charges as she sends them to her death.Yes, it’s TB time at Brookfield. It occurs to fellow-Briton and I that we should explain why the cows are being slaughtered, and why Ruth is so upset, and we do so over a bit of filler action.
“Oh,” comes a relieved voice from the back seat. “I thought they were her children”.