If I look a little harassed & harried today, you will have to excuse me. I am still recovering from the living nightmare, which was the Children's Pet Show.

I knew I should never have agreed to judge the little monster's pets, but it is very hard to decline an invitation presented in the person of Miss Dorothy Smithers, the President of the CM Summer Fete committee, she being of the tweed suit, felt hat, huge bosom and brown brogues - you will, no doubt, have a mental picture fixed firmly in your brain at this point. She accosted me in one of my merrier moments in the Saloon Bar; celebrating the luscious Amanda's most recent win in the Chumley Martin Point-to-Point races.

Through the haze of too many G & Ts, I distinctly remember agreeing whole- heartedly to "pop in at 2.30 and run through the cuddlies for you".

Well, Saturday dawned, well it would have had, had you been able to see through the overcast low cloud and drizzle. After a brisk walk round the lake to shake off the excesses of the night before I wandered down to the show ground, more commonly known as the 'Village Green' at Noon to meet and greet, and to make use of the Refreshments tent!

By 2.30 I was feeling rather jolly, the sun had by this time come out, and I had consumed rather a good number of Pimms in its honour.

I walked into the Pet Show tent to be greeted by a vast array of furry, scaly, species (note, this was just the kiddie's Mothers!) and also a vast array of Pets - though how some of them could be classed as pets escapes any reasonable thinking man.

Well, I thought I was doing quite well, Bunnies, Cavies, and the odd Hamster etc. Then I got to "Fifi", a red kneed Tarantula - why anyone would a) want one of these for a pet, and b) call it Fifi, is beyond me, but it takes all sorts..... .. now, I should possibly raise the fact that I have a slight aversion to arachnids due to an unfortunate incident in the jungles of Malaysia, but I bravely opened the tank housing the quite large beast and made suitable noises. At this point I was probably distracted by something, well I know what, but mention of 5'10" blondes, unsuitably attired, at this juncture may detract from the missive underway. Anyhow, I must have not put the top on properly, as future events will testify to.....

I moved on to the other assorted creatures, including a rather fine Alpaca. By the end of the allotted time, I had made up my mind in the usual way at such gatherings what to pick for the winners. Well, I have to admit, the attentions of various of the Chumley Martin Mothers at the end of last week, had swayed me in some way, but in the end, I did the only thing possible. I took the best political decision, and picked the Vicar's Daughter's Rabbit, then the Alpaca belonging to one of the local farmer's sons and then, to ensure not all the mothers were put out, Fifi the Tarantula.

It was the point, when the awards were to be handed out, that my slight distraction came to light - it appears Fifi had found that I had incorrectly replaced her lid and, being the obviously mischievous arachnid that she undoubtedly is, she had debunked! The news of this incident soon swept the tent, probably speeded by the wails of despair from Davina, the 9 year old owner of said spider. As you can imagine, the considerable crowd of onlookers were rather galvanised by the thought of said poisonous spider in their midst, and, chaos ensued!

Luckily, Fifi, seemingly quite an intelligent member of the arachnid community, had taken refuge away from possible extinction by assorted riding boots, brogues and suchlike, by climbing up the side of the tent and resting near the top of the marquee. She was eventually seen, and following some searching for ladders etc. was returned to the tearful Davina, much to the considerable relief everyone else.

I do not somehow think Dorothy will be asking me to judge next year.

Cat-astrophe strikes the Ladies Dart Match

On reflection it was not Boris's fault it was Pier's! Boris had assumed his usual Saloon Bar position, curled under my chair, as the triumphant members of the Chumley Martin Cricket Team discussed, and, dare I say it, celebrated in time honoured fashion, our monumental win over our arch rivals - Studley Regis.

Yes, on Sunday, we struck a blow (or should that be batted an innings?) for the honour of the village, and blew away the opposition! Well, actually, we won by two runs, but that is by the by!

Anyhow, I digress, there we were, last night, in fine spirits (well, George, the long suffering Landlord had dug out a particularly fine Malt to celebrate) when Piers announced he needed to visit the Lav, stood up and consequently stepped full square on the slumbering Boris's tail! Well, pandemonium ensued! Boris leapt to his feet as if blasted by a 12 bore, howling with pain. It was at this moment that the evening took a most unfortunate twist……

At the exact moment of Boris's rude awakening, who should saunter in to the bar but Stalin, the resident mog of the Cat and Custard Pot. Boris, espied said feline, and assumed, in his dim, but lovely Labrador brain, that Stalin was the cause of his pain and considerable discomfort and took off like a bull after a herd of in heat heifers after his supposed tormentor baying for blood!

Stalin, as would be expected, did not want to dally with a large over-weight black Lab determined to take all of his remaining 9 lives in one swoop, so was off across the bar as if his life depended on it (which in truth it probably did)!

Now, I suppose, I should already have mentioned the Ladies Darts Match that was underway between our very own Cat & Custard Pot team and that from The Spotted Cow from Dimly cum Hardly. Anyhow, for reasons best known to himself, Stalin decided the safest place would be on the head of the Dimly cum Hardly Ladies Captain, who just happens to be their vicar as well. The Reverend, dressed in a very becoming halter-topped summer dress span around shrieking from having a rather large Tabby suddenly appear on her head. Boris decided there is no such thing as sacred sanctuary and launched himself at Stalin. He managed to place both paws on the Vicar's shoulders, but then fell back. This had two direct repercussions.

1. Stalin then took a bid for freedom and sailed out the nearest window and was last seen heading for Studley Regis with Boris not far behind.
2. The Reverend's halter-top straps, not designed for withstanding 6 odd stone of black Labrador hanging from them, parted company with the frock. The dress, now not held up by anything more than a wing, and, most probably, a hasty prayer, descended to the floor of the Saloon Bar.

You could have heard a pin drop! It must be said it is very unusual to find one of the local vicars standing in any of the local hostelries in black Janet Raeger underwear (well, as far as we know) but we all stood frozen and open- mouthed. Molly, the barmaid, was the first to spring into action, and rushed from the kitchen with a large towel and covered the Vicar's embarrassment, and I must say what a lovely embarrassment she had.

The evening probably then would have gotten back to normal, but I just couldn't resist a little jape. I turned to the cricket team members and said, probably, as it seems, a little loudly, that it was the first time in living memory one of the local clergy had been "de-frocked".

To say relations with the visiting Ladies Darts Team were a little frosty after that would be a vast understatement, but such is life in the country.