THE ART OF SAYING YES Mrs M on the power of

Passionate about quintessential English customs, our incognito columnist reminds us to do the best things in life in the most elegant fashion, always with a twinkle in her eye

BELOW I had been toying with several sophisticated neutrals for the hallway but Mr M had other ideas. T here is a saying that goes something like: ‘what other people think of you is none of your business’. Whilst I wish I could rise above tittle-tattle, I admit to having been a little discombobulated when I heard I have a nickname amongst the regulars in the Rose & Crown. It seems they call me Bibi.

I could not understand why I had been assigned this name and initially thought it a term of endearment, and was, I confess, quite touched. This warm glow was not to last long. Cornering Mr M in the shed, I asked him if he was aware of my new moniker. He shuffled awkwardly on the spot and his cheeks took on a pinkish hue. “I’m sure they mean no harm,” he eventually muttered, toying nervously with an oily rag being used to wipe down an engine part of some description. He then admitted that Bibi was, in fact, BB, and it stood for Bossy Boots. “We need to talk,” I said, and Mr M adopted the demeanour of a schoolboy called to the headmistress’s office.

I was shocked. I think of myself as helpful rather than bossy, supportive rather than interfering. I pride myself on competence – something others do not seem to value as highly. Mr M and I then spent the evening having one of our occasional ‘life assessments’, and I resolved to try to understand what might be behind the villagers’ perception of me. I eventually learned that he did “at times, just a little bit, if it’s all right to be honest, feel a little, well, um, henpecked”. This led to some self-reflection on my part, and I agreed to throw caution to the wind and allow Mr M to be in charge of everything for the following three months.

Things began at home. We had been planning to paint the hallway and I was torn between four architectural shades, which Mr M described as “Beige, Beige Two, Beige Three and Most Beige”. He wanted something altogether bolder, so, in line with my new approach, I said he should decide and I would support his choice.

As DIY is neither a joint activity nor a spectator sport, he sent me off to the spa for a day whilst he got down to the painting. I had a simply lovely day being buffed and polished, but my inner calm and Zen-like glow deserted me upon opening the front door. The walls were painted in the gaudiest of blood reds, offset by skirting boards, doors, and – inexplicably – a new dado rail, in the kind of bright, clinical white prescribed for hospital operating theatres. The whole effect was of what one might imagine to be a 1980s low-rent bordello. Mr M had literally created a hallway of disrepute. I could practically smell the cheap scent.

“Is that strange expression one of delight, darling?” Mr M said, his face smudged with the red paint. “Are you thrilled? Ah… Do you think it a little…” He cast around for the right word. “Brave…?”

“Perhaps,” I replied, feeling cold shivers of shock run through me.

After a strong cup of sweet tea, I took a deep breath and mentally scrolled through my Rolodex to come up with a decorator who could put this right at short notice. However, the problem was fixed the next day by Mr M himself. When I returned from Waitrose, I bumped into a courier on the driveway. He was delivering four tins of Most Beige.

With the hallway paint disaster resolved and feeling somewhat emboldened, Mr M reminded me that during our last ‘life assessment’ he had mentioned we would benefit from a joint interest. Regular readers will know of Mr M’s passion for tinkering, spending hours taking things apart seemingly simply to put them back together, and not always successfully. His latest project is an old Norton motorbike and he suggested that perhaps I could help by holding a spanner or passing him a nut or some other vital part. I agreed, 

perhaps a little too enthusiastically, as he later suggested I learned to ride the wretched thing. I nodded in what I believed to be a non-committal way, but he interpreted this as agreement and booked us both onto a one-day compulsory basic training (CBT) course – the legal requirement to ride any motorcycle up to 125cc, I am told.

The day of the course dawned, and the heavens opened. As well as the rain and the sleet, there was hail. We began with a practical session on what one should wear to ride a motorcycle, before moving on to the theory of riding safely, and then to the rules of the road. Dave, our rather brusque instructor, did not seem hugely impressed that I knew the correct answers to almost every question. In turn, I was unimpressed by the cold and draughty Portakabin that was our classroom.

Next, we had to complete a number of exercises in the car park that passed as our training ground. This is where I faltered. I was shown to a sports motorcycle in a garish pink-and-orange colourway and simply could not fathom how to make it move. Dave took pity and demoted me to an automatic – a moped. Things looked up then and I whizzed around the car park doing figures of eight and emergency stops.

I say ‘whizzed’ as it felt quite fast, but once we were allowed out on the road, all I could hear was Dave in my earpiece repeatedly saying “Good girl, speed up. You’re holding up traffic behind us”. We spent an hour driving around country lanes, with Dave, again, telling me to go faster: “Good girl, let’s try to get to 20 miles per hour.” Still, I thought I had it in the bag. I had been told by many people, Dave included, that one cannot fail the CBT course. Then came the wet leaves, the sharp corner, the skidding of wheels, the inevitable crash and the lovely ambulance man who scooped me up from the side of the road. “Have I failed?” I asked an ashen-faced Dave as the paramedic examined my dislocated knee.

That evening, at home, as Mr M and I mused about individual strengths, and he agreed that choosing colours was not his forte whilst I conceded that I should stick to my Pashley Princess bicycle.

A few days later, I limped into the pub and heard talk of someone called Mimi. “Who’s that?” I asked Tom behind the bar. “Oh, that’s their nickname for Nancy,” he laughed. “With her it’s all me, me, me. She divorced her sweet and unassuming husband after 30 years because she was tired of his lack of ambition and wanted to conquer the world. She is a tour de force within the Rotary Club but lives alone with her eight cats.”

On balance, then, I have decided it is better to be a BB than a Mimi, and Mr M has confessed he feels secure in my bossiness, as it allows him to get on with tinkering whilst I worry about the practical side of life. n

PHOTOGRAPH P111 (PAINT POT) © FLEGERE/SHUTTERSTOCK

Having reassessed the notion of hobbies Mrs M shares some of her favourite new discoveries to help in the pursuit of creative pastimes

PASHLEY PRINCESS CLASSIC Having given up on the notion of a motorcycle, I find myself falling in love all over again with my beautiful unpowered bicycle. Made in Stratford-upon-Avon and with a design rooted in the 1920s, when Pashley was founded, the Pashley Princess Classic is easy to ride, feels sturdy and is an utter joy to look at. It really is quintessentially English cycling at its best. Plus, there are only three gears to worry about, something that could not make me happier. These bicycles cost £745, but last forever if you look after them. More information can be found at pashley.co.uk

MASILLA PAINT In Spanish, Masilla means putty or filler, but to Mr M it means beige, a colour to which he is a new convert. The hallway has now been repainted in this gorgeous shade and it looks marvellous. I adore delicate, complex neutrals and Masilla by Fired Earth is the perfect example. It looks great against white, natural wood and bolder colours, such as greens, and offers the perfect backdrop for black-and-white photographs if you like to create a gallery wall. It costs from £48 a tin and more information can be found at firedearth.com

THE JOY OF MAKING I have decided to turn my hand to gentler and safer hobbies, so was thrilled to receive a copy of Mark Herald’s Raucous Invention: The Joy of Making. Filled with chapter after chapter of his distinctive collages (top), textile designs, linocut prints, wallpapers and sculptures (to name but a few), Raucous Invention is a celebration of – and insight into – Hearld’s recent work and extraordinary creativity. It is totally inspiring and has transformed my walks as I am always on the lookout for artistic inspiration. It is published by Random Spectacular and costs £35.