Powdered wigs, beauty marks, heaving bosoms, pox ridden harlots, corsets and velvet jackets. These are the things that spring to mind when I hear the word “restoration”. My mother-in-law on the other hand thinks immediately of currant buns, chipped tea cups, raspberry jam, and egg sandwiches. These are the things that she and her cabal of do good friends sell at jumble sales and fetes to raise money for the restoration of the church roof.

It makes life awkward for me. At parish meetings, when the conversation comes round to the restoration fund, I’m imagining Count Edward StJohn-Smyth dribbling over Betty Golightly’s ample décolletage whilst shouting “Pshaw, tis a buxom wench you are young Betty”. Meanwhile mother-in-law is making eyes at the Deacon and asking if there might be an extra fold away table for the weigh the cake competition.

Please don’t get me wrong, I understand that the restoration of the church is important. I try my very best to be supportive. At last summer’s school fete I spent 5 hours in charge of the “Hit the Nails in the Log” stall. This requires participants to hammer as many nails into a log in 1 minute as they can. At the end of the day the winner gets to keep the hammer. It was a blazing hot day and I had no shade. I had to deal with several accidents, one of which resulted in a broken thumb. This year we decided to modify this stall, so there will be an “Undo the Bolt” competition and the winner can get to keep the spanner, generally considered to be a less dangerous implement.

So I do get involved, but I can't seem to totally immerse myself in the mind numbing detail of planning the next Beetle Drive. For god's sake I don't even know what that is, but I do know it requires me to hand-write posters to be distributed around the village. I offered to print them but mother-in-law said “that would be the easy way out and the road to victory is paved with obstacles so we need to be repugnant"...she means resilient but her spoonerism is apposite.

However, I get bored and have a tendency to launch myself into imaginary landscapes. My fantastical sojourns can be triggered by anything, a word, an action, an object. The Deacon pointed to the steeple the other day and next thing I knew I was being ravaged by Ralph Fiennes dressed as a Nazi.

The coffee morning at Mrs Brownlow’s and the framed photo of her cat had me lounging on a chaise long wearing a pink fur trimmed chiffon negligee twin set with a long haired moggy purring on my lap. Perched beside me on a stool was a pretty young blonde man, scribbling furiously as I dictated my latest work of titillating popular fiction.

Most of my daydreams involve some kind lustful behaviour. When sitting next to the mother of one's husband that can have a quite a discombobulating effect. It will all be easier soon. The Roof-o-meter in the church has nearly reached its target. Only one more whist drive and the roof will get its lead flashing. Flashing........o’h Deacon!