Rather an odd thing has happened.

Rather an odd thing has happened. All the circumstances of my existence have shifted. It as though Presteigne were a figment of my imagination. Of course, I now realise, all this time I've really lived in the Cotswold village of Botolph St Otto. Our house is not called Phuckwhitt. I made that up.
Its time I stopped living in a dream world. No more lies. Here is a statement of the facts of my life.
You could think of it as a relaunch.
Which it is.
My name is Hilary Alaric MacFaddean Spume, FRSL. I am, as I’m sure you are quite aware, a poet. I am 72 years young. Modesty prevents me from listing my many and various achievements and publications. It was between me, Larkin and Ted Hughes for the laureateship a few years back, but I must say I was relieved when it went to old Ted. Still, every dog will have his day, and it is reward enough for me that I have been described as ‘Britain’s Best Loved Poet’, though the butt of malmsey would not have gone amiss. My most well known poem is still, I suppose, ‘On The Opening Of The Scunthorpe Power Station’, which I’m sure many of you remember from school, as it has been heavily anthologised.
I have been asked to say a few words about my life here in Botolph St. Otto. I live in Botolph Hall with my brother, Sir Leslie Spume, his companion Eric, and our housekeeper, Mrs Cutler. I was born in the Hall, which has been in the possesion of the Spume family since 1543, but for many years I lived in Soho with my dear wife Mimsy. Following her tragic death in a bizarre water-skiing accident off Gozo five years ago, Leslie suggested that I come home to Botolph Hall, a suggestion with which I was pleased to go along. Those of my former companions at ‘The Coach and Horses’ who felt that this return to the country marked some form of retirement have been proved sadly mistaken, as life in the village is an endless whirl of social, familial and cultural excitement. And, of course, I still have my work. I have been a consultant on the film of my life, ‘Hilary and Mimsy’, somewhat in the vein of ‘Iris’ and ‘Sylvia’, which is currently being filmed on location in Torquay. My forthcoming collection of nature poems, ‘Mumbles’ is much anticipated. Botolph St. Otto, far from being a backwater, has revivified me.
Perhaps I should say something about the village, though God only knows from the amount of motor cars and charabancs that clog up the High Street from May till October, it is well known enough already. It nestles in a little valley between Moreton-in-Marsh and Chipping Campden. We have a wonderful 14th century church, St. Otto’s, highly thought of by Pevsner. Of particular note are the magnificent reredos, a fine hagioscope, an unusual piscina, and, of course, the tombs of the Spume family. We have a village hall, built by my grandfather after the First War. We have a 17th century coaching inn (The Spume Arms), and a disreputable ale house, The Turk’s Head. We have two tea rooms, Bumbles and The Old Dairy. We have three antique shops (the best of which, Old Forge Antiques, is run by my brother’s companion, Eric). There is a post office, where I collect the small pension granted me by a grateful nation every Monday, which I use to pay off my slate at The Turk’s Head. The village school, St. Otto’s Church of England Primary, is a hive of activity, presided over by the excellent Mrs. Peach, with whom I am a little in love. On the outskirts of the village, you will find a small supermarket, run by the redoubtable Mr Singh and his family, and also Hancock’s Garage, long established. Most of the houses are built in the characteristic Cotswold honey coloured stone, though there is an unfortunate rash of social housing beyond Hancock’s, on the Moreton road.
Our own modest pile, Botolph Hall, was also much admired by Pevsner. Largely rebuilt in the eighteenth century, it stands in 25 acres of parkland, and is a convenient ten minute walk from the centre of the village. Old Leslie opens it to the hoi-polloi on alternative Wednesdays during the summer. On these days, I usually catch the train from Moreton up to London for the day, to revisit old haunts in Soho. We also host an annual Garden Fete, which I cannot say I enjoy overmuch. Mrs Cutler, our housekeeper, poor old thing, agrees with me, but old Leslie enjoys it, as it gives him and Eric a chance to dress up.
What with jumble sales, beetle drives, safari suppers and quiz night at The Turk’s Head, we stay terribly busy in the village, and I look forward to sharing some of our doings with you over the coming months. I may also, if the mood strikes, take this oppurtunity to publish a few selections from ‘Mumbles’, which I feel confident that you will enjoy!