Betty Twyford - Domestic Goddess
PUBLISHED: 11:07 21 January 2011 | UPDATED: 20:42 20 February 2013
Betty's husband George proves he's a good sport by digging his way out of Herefordshire to take his domestic goddess on a big night out
The snowmust go on
In which Bettys husband George proves hes a good sport by digging his way out of Herefordshire to take his domestic goddess on a big night out
Leaving Hereford on a snowy Sunday morning there is no time to listen to The Archers omnibus. I have bathed, shampooed, applied a sort of streaky tan (not quite Strictly Come Dancing-style) and picked out my highest heels and slinkiest little black number. I have painted my nails a shocking pink and sprayed Este Lauder Beautiful perfume down my front. The height of sophistication, thats me!
It has been snowing all night, but this fact seems to elude me in my frantic efforts to glam up. George has disappeared tinkering somewhere no doubt, though there seems to be an awful lot of door banging and swearing going on. Shovelling, do I hear shovelling? I carry on preening.
I totter downstairs feeling like a princess. This sight has never before been seen on a Sunday morning; I usually slink around in a dressing gown, hair all over the place and cook up a wonderful treat called double cholesterol fried breakfast special on the Aga.*
We are off to the LG Arena in Birmingham, for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards. Our host has paid 280 per ticket, for dinner, the show, and bed and breakfast. What an amazing treat!
George is sweating as he has filled the back of my estate car with bricks, a shovel, wellingtons, a torch, matches and sandwiches. I try to be sensible but the irony does not escape me. I am done up like a dogs dinner and my car is full of Victorian red bricks. Why does everything I do turn into a comedy sketch? I start to giggle but I try to suppress the urge when I note that George is not very amused. Removing my stilettos, I tread into my green wellies, throw on my sheepskin coat and muffle up with a scarf and gloves.By now my hair has flattened in the damp air, and I wish I was wearing my thermals under my cocktail dress.
After several attempts and a bit of help from our neighbour, we set off in silence. We crawl along at a snails pace with the time ticking by.
I nervously glance at the itinerary, which reads like an army manoeuvre: pre-dinner drinks at 2.50pm, followed by dinner and then to the arena to see the show. We are to park in the blue car park and check into the Hilton hotel. I am excited and fearful at once. Oh, thank the Lord; we have arrived at the hotel. The Hilton is full of people wearing tracksuits, all looking desperate. The bedrooms are not ready because the airport has been closed and other guests have refused to leave. A waiter walks by with a tray of drinks and I grab one... Luggage is all over the foyer, and unable to change for the event, some people are hysterical. Thank goodness I did so much this morning!
We finally meet up with our fellow guests, the wine starts to flow and we all become great pals as the evening wears on. I have given up trying to be sophisticated and George and I actually have a dance, in that old-fashioned gyrating kind of way, but we do not care. He says he is sorry he was in such a mood this morning and I say I am sorry I didnt help him dig out the car.
One of our party, Lorraine (from Essex, dripping gold, low-cut dress; undaunted and fearless) is determined to be photographed with and to gain autographs from, all of the celebrities milling around after the presentations. James Corden (Smithy from Gavin and Stacey), Dame Kelly Holmes, two dancers from Strictly Come Dancing, A.P. McCoy, David Haye, Tom Daley and Lee Westwood to name but a few. Smithy disappears into the crowd when she attempts a second photo shoot, and Tom is anxious to find his Mum.
As the evening wears on, I am brave enough to whisper to Lorraine boob alert! She looks down, retrieves the errant body part, and says, Oh, blimey! now, will you take a photograph of me with Phil The Power Taylor ? I cannot refuse.
Betty Twyford lives with long-suffering husband George in the Herefordshire countryside where she embraces homemaking and the occasional night on the town.