Last night I attended a barn dance down the road, the second biggest social event in the town’s calendar, after the Agricultural Show. Well, my attendance was not a matter of free choice, as I had been required by the mother-in-law to mind the husband, with his wont for mayhem when the maternal and professional reins are loose.

The barn dance was held in two vast sheds outfitted with two bars and a stage; elsewhere there were gourmet burger trucks and even a hi-vis-clad lady conducting traffic in the portaloo section. Once in awhile you’d get a sweetly fermented whiff of silage. An Irish country star played; so big-name he insisted on being driven to the stage, to the organisers' chagrin - notions! I must have said hi to half the town, and the other half was quite pissed. I thought I was sober for most of the night, despite two bottles of Coronas, two Jagerbombs, and at least four gin & sodas, but I realised at some point that I wasn't; I was dangerously close to the territory of indiscretion and bad manners. Whenever I felt the urge to say something untoward, which is often, I danced.

The husband did not cause mayhem, I am happy to report, although there was a moment when he pulled aside his archnemesis to give him an earful. This morning he asked me, “I didn’t bury the hatchet with him, did I?” “No," I said, "You decidedly did not!” With a great deal of satisfaction, he responded, “I’m sure I called him a cunt.”

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