Well, Brian Aldridge finally had the angina attack that was so obviously around the corner: a precursor, perhaps, of the Fall of the House of Aldridge that I’m avidly looking forward to. This event led to the introduction of Julianne into proceedings, a super-rich corporate type who pays Ruairi a retainer to escort her about town. The whole thing is preposterous, of course. Ruairi is 19 and until about 10 minutes ago was never heard because he was always in his bedroom, on his PlayStation with Ben Archer. He’s a nice-enough kid and all that, but really, I’d almost be prepared to fork out a retainer not to have to listen to his tedious public-school bantz.
Talking of intergenerational relationships, I’m intrigued by the delightfully non-transactional alliance between Jim and Chelsea. In her role as Ambridge’s moral arbiter/speaker of home truths/instinctive anticapitalist, Chelsea called it right when she pointed out that Jim was indeed the rightful winner of the Ambridge unsung hero award, rather than, goddamit, fag-ash Lilian (love her as I do). “Oh, that’s just making money,” said Chelsea of Lilian’s asseveration that she provides employment and housing to the village. “Jim does all that clerking for the parish council and he’s a team leader in the village shop.” Chelsea and Jim have already been caught watching trashy telly together; now she’s popping across the green to spend time with her elderly chum when Casa Horrobin gets a bit much. Before we know it, Chelsea, a bright spark, will be quoting Plutarch’s Life of Cato with as much fluency as the prof himself.
I’m glad that Kirsty and Adil, the man in charge of Grey Gables’ reinvention, are having a flirtation. Was that an erotic bramble removal from Adil’s person while she was touring him around the rewilding project? I do believe it was.
Tom and Natasha are having fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. I really need Tim Harford, and Radio 4’s More or Less, to explain to me whether it is a freak Borsetshire event, or perfectly statistically reasonable, to have three sets of such twins in one village, indeed one extended family: we’ve got Shula and Kenton, Lily and Freddie, and now these two sprinkled down three generations of Archers. Not counting the easily forgotten, and probably not related, identical Gleeson twins.
I have one thing to say about the Ben, Beth and Steph triangle (I suppose you have to call it a square once you add Ben’s dog Bess into the equation). It is this: the sound of snogging should be banned on the radio.
