The Daily Novel

To the Six Bells by the side of the green in Warborough, Oxfordshire for Sunday lunch.  Television addicts of Midsomer Murders will be familiar with this green because many of the outside shots for this popular serial were filmed there. The pub is also popular with the locals and with the Sunday crowd. There were five MGs parked outside when we arrived. We have a table for eight booked in the garden.The sky is an unbroken grey in contrast to the string of sunny days this week but there are splashes of colour in the garden. Though the daffodils are past their best, mostly lying on the ground, and the forsythia is starting to turn green, the scene is dominated by the cherry blossom tree now at full flower. There is a laburnum tree in the corner. The border is spotted with light blue, either bluebells or forget-me-nots. Against the shed there are two old pub signs. One for The Quill Inn, illustrated by a quill pen. One for The Luck in the World with a picture of two gaily coloured court jesters. As it happens I saw Midsomer Murders on Friday night. There were two splendid murders. In the first a grumpy old man was first drugged and then led on to his own lawn, where he was nailed down in an horizontal cross-like pose. Then the villain loaded a medieval launching weapon, which conveniently happened to be there as a garden ornament, with his thousand pound a bottle claret and fired a succession of salvoes until he finally hit the target.  All the time his long-suffering wife Annette Crosbie, whose wheelchair had been pushed to an upstairs window so that she had a grandstand view, was resisting his cries for help. Her face was a picture of suppressed glee.The second murder was equally credible. Another man was slowly drowned in wine. As the level slowly rose above his mouth he drowned, hopefully in an alcoholic cloud. By this time the intrepid Barnaby (John Nettles) had discovered that there were several villains in Midsomer involved together in a highly profitable scam. For some years they had been selling plonk with Chateau labels. Until they fell out with each other.Next Friday there will be more atrocities. But this Sunday the forces of law and order have ensured that this very traditional English village is delivering the traditional peaceful English Sunday afternoon. The green is surrounded by a mix of stone thatched cottages and 1930s red brick. The cricket season has not yet started. One man is playing football with his son and daughter, who is showing more talent for the game than the males. There are two courting couples but no football hooligans.The food is equally traditional. The choice is roast pork, roast beef or roast lamb. You cannot be sure what you are getting because they are all concealed beneath two enormous Yorkshire puddings. We are here to celebrate brother-in-law’s birthday, which falls on the same day as that of Adolf Hitler, and one day before that of Queen Elizabeth II. Roger came here 32 years ago to take up a job looking after some of the local pigs. He liked it so much that he stayed on long after he had retired. By now he is accepted as one of the locals and had been given the plum local job of looking after the cricket pavilion.Had it not been for this celebration I would have been in Wolverhampton where the Wolves were playing their last match of the season. If they win they will be in the play-offs with a chance of returning to the Premier League. Even as I write now I have not dared to look up the result on the web. In case they have screwed it up yet again. Today I am not going to let anything disturb my good mood.