Mrs Malarkey

Category: Much Pothering

Welcome to Much Pothering, a fictional village inspired by the wonderfully ridiculous realities of British village life. The names and places have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty and those who really ought to know better. The characters may be fictional, but the nonsense is remarkably familiar.

  • A dead cat, a jogger and standing in the rain

    A dead cat, a jogger and standing in the rain

    Last night, at about eight o’clock, there was a knock at the door. A lady out jogging in the wind and rain had stopped to inform us that there was a dead cat at the end of our lane. As ours is the first house, she’d assumed it belonged to us. We don’t have a cat.

    Nevertheless, I thanked her for letting us know and, for reasons I still can’t entirely explain, Mr Malarkey put his coat on and went out into the rain to inspect a dead cat that wasn’t ours.

    He thought he might recognise it as belonging to one of the neighbours. Unfortunately, he did. It belonged to the rather peculiar neighbours who keep themselves to themselves. The sort of people whose lights are on, whose television can clearly be seen flickering through the curtains, but who never answer the door.

    This presented us with something of a dilemma. Well, me, as Mr Malarkey refuses to speak to the odd neighbours.

    Do I knock on their door and tell them their cat has been run over? There’s a very good chance they won’t answer, leaving me standing in the rain rehearsing increasingly tactful ways of announcing the death of their pet.

    Do I pick up the cat and deposit it on their doorstep with a little note? What exactly should I write on such a note?

    Dear Neighbours,

    I believe this is yours. Sorry about the condition.

    Kind regards, Mrs Malarkey.

    Then there’s the possibility that they’ll assume I ran over the cat myself and have simply returned the evidence to the scene of the crime. Suddenly, I’m imagining an irate neighbour hammering on my door, demanding to know why I’ve been driving around murdering cats and leaving them on people’s doorsteps. All because a perfectly well-meaning jogger knocked on our door.

    We don’t own a cat. I certainly haven’t run over a cat. I wasn’t even outside when the cat met its unfortunate end, I was sat watching Jamie’s 20 Minute Meals. Yet somehow, at eight o’clock on a wet and windy evening, the whole business had become my problem.

    In the end, we decided to leave the cat where it was. Not because we didn’t feel sorry for the poor thing, but because I was rather more concerned about the reaction of its owners.

    We went back indoors, took off our wet coats and considered the absurdity of the situation. We’d spent our evening standing in the rain looking at somebody else’s dead cat, debating whether to return it to its owners, and worrying that one of us might be accused of murdering it.

    Sometimes I think the neighbours are onto something, it would be better not to answer the door.

  • What will the neighbours think?

    What will the neighbours think?

    I think it’s about time I introduced you to Much Pothering, the place that Mrs Malarkey lives. Of course Much Pothering isn’t the real name of the village. I’ve taken a few liberties with the characters and circumstances, partly for the sake of amusement and partly because I’d quite like to preserve everyone’s anonymity, mine included.

    Much Pothering is a perfectly ordinary little village, full of perfectly ordinary people, going about their perfectly ordinary lives. At least that’s what they’d like you to believe. In reality, it is a place where the smallest of matters can cause the most extraordinary amount of fuss. A misplaced wheelie bin can become a matter of public concern, a village committee meeting can last longer than a parliamentary debate, and certain residents take themselves considerably more seriously than the situation warrants.

    I have lived amongst these people for quite some time now (read that as a few decades,) quietly observing their comings and goings, occasionally getting dragged into their various disputes and generally wondering how on earth some of them manage to get through the day.

    I thought you might like to meet a few of them.

    We’ll begin with Mrs Pompington (not her real name obviously.)

    Mrs Pompington is a lady of considerable standing in Much Pothering. Mostly, it must be said, in her own estimation.

    She lives with her husband, Mr Pompington, in a rather grand house and drives a bright yellow Porsche. Not a discreet yellow, you understand. The sort of yellow that can be seen approaching from the next county, appears on Google Maps and causes small children to stop what they’re doing to point.

    Mrs Pompington is very particular about appearances and keeping up with appearances too. She likes people to know that she has standards, although quite what these standards are seems to depend on who is watching.

    Take her weekly shopping, for example. Mrs Pompington shops at Waitrose. Naturally.

    Now, I have absolutely nothing against Waitrose. It’s a very nice supermarket. My natural supermarket stomping ground is more Lidl and Morrisons than Waitrose, but I do pop into Waitrose every now and again because I’m particularly fond of anywhere that sells food at a reduced price now and again. Mrs Pompington, however, wouldn’t dream of buying anything with a yellow reduced sticker on it. Not because there’s anything wrong with the food. Not because she doesn’t like a bargain. Simply because someone might see her.

    Apparently, the possibility of being spotted purchasing a reduced packet of sausages is a social humiliation from which one might never recover.

    Personally, I’d be delighted to find a packet of sausages reduced from £5.50 to £2.10. I’d buy three and put them in the freezer. Mrs Pompington would sooner go without sausages altogether than risk being seen putting a yellow-stickered packet into her trolley.

    This is something I find particularly fascinating, given that the woman drives around in a bright yellow Porsche. Evidently, there are some forms of yellow which denote considerable social standing, whilst others suggest one’s financial circumstances have taken a turn for the worse. I have often wondered whether she realises the irony. I suspect not.

    The really amusing thing about Mrs Pompington is that she is by no means unusual in Much Pothering. The village is positively bursting with people who have very definite opinions about what is and isn’t acceptable, many of which appear to have been invented entirely by themselves.

    Over time, I’ll introduce you to a few more of them, along with some of the peculiar goings-on that make life in Much Pothering considerably more complicated than it needs to be but in equal measure quite amusing.

    For now, should you ever find yourself in the village and spot a bright yellow Porsche, do give Mrs Pompington a wave. Just make sure you’re not carrying a reduced packet of sausages you’ll be a social pariah in Much Pothering.

    Like me.