The Chipper Barman’s face lights up.

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“Girl’s phone! It’s a girl’s phone! Hahahaha!”

I am getting a bit tired of this ridicule. It is not as if I am particularly affected by it. It is just boring and predictable. If people want to spend hundreds of pounds on the latest ‘fashionable’ gadget when there is one in perfect working order that they can get for free then they are the idiots, not I.

John returns from the toilet.

“Mppphhhhhffrggghahahahaha!” he laughs. He is bloody immature. Short Tony and Big A join in. So are they. Even Mrs Short Tony, who you think would have some sort of gender solidarity.

“You are wasting your breath,” I inform them. “Water off a duck’s back.”

“A duckie’s back,” interjects Eddie, a quite inappropriate gayist remark.

Honestly, they are all living in the dinosaur ages. It is the 21st century now, and if I want to carry round a pink phone then I am perfectly at liberty to do so. The world has moved on, and I am proud to say that I have moved with it.

“You what?!?” I ask Short Tony.

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He repeats his news.

I am stunned by the announcement. To say that the news hits me like a football-sized chunk of uranium contained in a safe that has then been placed in an iron-framed grand piano and sent plummeting from the fifteenth floor window of the Institute of High Gravity Studies with a member of sixties hippie combo ‘The Mamas and the Papas’ tied to each leg (John Phillips having a large quantity of loose change in his pocket) followed by an antelope, a large bag of ball bearings and a parcel marked ‘DANGER OF INJURY! Do Not Attempt to Lift This’ would be an understatement.

“Weightwatchers?!?” I gape, looking round the kitchen.

The news is confirmed.

“I wouldn’t mind going as well,” somebody else says.

There is madness in the air. We are meant to be a proper snooker club, albeit the worst snooker club in England. Now there is a breakaway delegation thinking of attending Weightwatchers on our nights off.

“It’s a complete rip-off,” I explain. “All they do is tell you to lose weight and then when you turn up the next week, ask you if you’ve done so.”

“Well that’s a motivational thing, isn’t it?” says Eddie.

“Look,” I counter desperately, in my official Club Secretary capacity. “I’ll do a table in Excel and stick it up on the noticeboard. We can each aim to get our weight in stones below our highest breaks.”

My idea is dismissed as unrealistic. We now not only have the worst snooker club in England, but we have the worst snooker club in England (on diets).

“You’ve no dignity. None of you,” I mutter sadly.

“Show us yer phone,” somebody retorts.

My phone has broken.

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There is no real reason why I need a cell phone these days. I do not have important people to call any more, and I have no friends to text. Apparently however I need to be contactable by the nursery in an Emergency, or they ring Social Services instead.

The LTLP has now got a Blackberry, which means that half my emails are things like ‘get the dinner on’. So I have taken her old phone, which is a Motorola and bright lurid pink.

One of the advantages of living in a small village is that nobody is particularly bothered about fashion or stuff, so it is not as if people will laugh at me for having a bright lurid pink phone. Unfortunately the first time I have to use it is in the middle of the shopping centre in King’s Lynn in the school holidays. I huddle up with my body pressed against a wall, trying to take the call with my head tucked underneath my anorak. I do not want to find myself the subject of the weekly “POLICE HUNT ‘MINDLESS’ ATTACKERS” headline in the local newspaper.

I am relieved when the call ends and I am able to escape to the security of home. It is actually quite a snazzy phone, with features such as a camera and the ability to play a tune when a call arrives rather than just a ringing noise. I have to say that I am quite proud of it.

I go to the Village Pub.

Everybody points and laughs at me.

The Friday before Christmas.

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I am feeling festive.

The decorations are up; presents are stacked in the fireplace. What’s more, Len the Fish has just delivered a spectacular honey-roast gammon.

There is nothing more Christmassy than Len the Fish’s gammon. Each year he takes orders from all and sundry, collects the meat directly from the abattoir and then smokes and roasts it at his cottage. I toast Len the Fish and his gammon at the Village Pub – he has dropped mine off first and is now on a delivery tour of the villages in his pickup truck, accompanied by his loyal dogg.

He walks through the double-doors much later, and plonks himself down at the bar.

“Len’s a bit late tonight,” comments John.

“Yes,” I reply, as quick as a flash. “He has been driving ham for Christmas.”

There is loud laughter. I am delighted with my quick-witted joke. I continue loudly laughing for as long as I can, to encourage anybody else to join in.

“You what?” says John.

“Len,” I reply. “He’s been ‘driving ham for Christmas.’”

“What?!?”

It is annoying when you come up with solid gold material but waste it on people with unsophisticated senses of humour.

“Driving ham for Christmas. Like Chris Rea sings. The Christmas song. ‘Driving Home for Christmas’.”

“Who?”

Sometimes it is frustrating living amongst the old and infirm. I have a policy of not criticising my neighbours but the cutting edge of music and culture just passes them by. Most of them have not even heard of Face Book.

“Except he is from the North East,” I try to explain. “So it sounds like he is singing ‘Driving Ham for Christmas.’”

“If he’s from the North East,” interjects Eddie, “then he’d be singing ‘Driving Hooom for Christmas.’” I look at him in annoyance. “Hey – Len!” he calls. “Have you been out delivering hoooms?”. This is typical Eddie. He is a stirrer. I have still not forgiven him after the incident with the blonde.

Len the Fish and his dogg give us nonplussed looks. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “How are you, anyway?”

“Sorry – I still don’t understand,” says John. “Chris Rea sings ‘home’. Not ‘ham’. Surely.”

Christmas is a time for family. I finish my pint bad-temperedly and consider rejoining them after the next one.