The day of the village pottery fair. The mayor, the Old Farmer ( looking dapper in string vest, voluminous khaki shorts and black wellington boots ) and the man in the yellow day-glo jacket are putting up metal crowd control barriers. 'The font' looks out of the drawing room window and mutters ' hope springs eternal'.
Fifteen potters said they would come. So far four have shown up. The fact the lady with the beehive hairdo left the invite letters in the glove box of her car for a month and only rediscovered them two and a half weeks ago may, or may not, have something to do with the depleted attendance.
Bob and Sophie have welcomed each of the potters vans as they arrive on the village green - enthusiastically.