We're Not On The Same Planet

I SEND the family WhatsApp group a spectacular photie of the first snows of winter on Ben Wyvis, anticipating a lyrical response.

- Joe Gibbs

My wife messages back: ‘I’m not coming home until the heating’s turned on.’ Ah, well. As I will have beaten my personal best for ‘latest central heating switch-on date’ by a distance, I can afford to reply in soothing textual reassurances.

The days are drawing in and rural evening entertainment options are narrowing to prayer groups and cribbage when, stab me vitals, an invitation appears, hand-delivered under the back door, no less—or perhaps handdived through the puddle outside it, as they say of scallops in some classier inns.

Anyway, a bona fide excuse to escape the ice house for a warm community hall is welcome, even if it’s to hear that the Earth is flat. Yup, that old red herring. If you thought Aristotle and Pythagoras put this one to bed, think again.

The audience numbers about 14 souls. A sheepish neighbour emulates the green-exit-sign man as I spot him. One down, 13 to go. Some faces I recognise, but they stare unseeing into the middle distance, coat collars turned up and hands thrust deep into pockets.

Later, as with certain Soho cinemas, no one will admit to having been here tonight, with the exception of the sole occupant of the front row, who shows all the signs of being a committed Flat Earth disciple.