Country calendars

The barbarian was at the gate. Then he was in the house. I had been smugly congratulating myself on a most civilised Christmas Day here at Lush Places.

- Michele Hewitson

The croquet hoops were set up on the lawn. Miles Davis was playing quietly on the outdoor speakers. There was a tussie-mussie from the garden on the outdoor table, which was set with my great-grandmother's silver and the linen napkins. Then the barbarian arrived, Blokesy Stokes, also known as Andrew, who lives with Janet right around the bend. What, he demanded to know, loudly, was that depressing music? By which he meant: what was that girly music? We needed, he decreed, AC/DC.

He is a generous sort of barbarian. He came bearing gifts. Grinning like a Santa with a twisted sense of humour, he presented Greg with the following: a muscle T-shirt, a packet of fags and, the pièce de résistance, a girly calendar. Once the obligatory adornment of every mechanics' workshop, a girly calendar is seldom seen these days. This one was provided courtesy of a local engineering company. He had told Blokesy that he was sick of bloody landscapes.