Monday, 20th March 2006.

Big Fish, small pond

Sutton Courtenay is an extremely pretty village with attractive houses and a lovely green, but relatively few points of actual interest. One of them, however, is the church cemetery, which is home to George Orwell (who apparently had no connection with the village and just wanted to be buried somewhere random) and also Lord Asquith, former Prime Minister. His is the most impressive of the graves, sandwiched as it is amongst a collection of fading, chipped stones for the long since dead, as well as smooth, polished granite for the recently deceased, and some absolutely dreadful slush for deceased children. The memorial for Asquith takes the form of a large stone coffin in a prominent position, well maintained and impressive to say the least.

Asquith's presence within the church cemetery is matched by the aura of general respectability that's left hanging over the village. His house is a large, high-windowed affair just round the corner from the village green, with walls of white stone and two carved dogs keeping watch on top of the Roman-style pillars by the front door. Six acres of land are contained inside the high brick wall that guards the property from intruders, and the river snakes through the back garden. The house was a popular rural retreat for Asquith's family - including his great granddaughter, Helena Bonham Carter, who spent many happy summers there. Late last year, she bought the house, and moved in with her husband (who, if you didn't know it, is none other than Tim Burton) at the beginning of 2006.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, on Saturday afternoon we saw them in the pub.

I forget whose bright idea it had been to walk by the river. Everything was going swimmingly until we hit the fields, and felt the rush of the March winds bite and pinch. Josh peered out from his baby carrier and whined: Emily tried putting a hand in front of his face to keep the wind off, but this only made him cry louder. By the time we arrived back at the green we were all hungry, and more than a little cold. Still, it did us all good, which is the main thing.

We were standing at the bar looking at menus when they came in, and I didn't recognise them at first. It wasn't until we'd taken a seat in a raised alcove in one corner of the restaurant that I glanced down and realised I'd seen that wild hair before, and recently. Helena might resemble a glacial angel on set, but catch her in her natural environment and she looks like a member of an eighties new romantic quintet. Burton is even more curious - his weathered, thoughtful veneer hides the fact that (in the words of one critic) a camera is always turning in his head, but the white straggly beard betrays his hair's natural colour. The hair itself is like something out of Edward Scissorhands, which is ironic.

I blinked and then realised why I recognised them both, and all the puzzle pieces fell into place at the same moment. We knew that they were in the village, and that they'd visited the George and Dragon before - the landlady seemed to recognise them as locals, and on the night they moved in Burton put his head round the door and asked if they could buy a bottle of champagne, so I suppose it's possible that they go in there regularly. I'd be quite impressed if they did, to be honest - showing that they're not beneath their local watering hole, despite living in the most expensive house in the village, not to mention Helena's upper-class Merchant Ivory reputation.

Any of you who recollect my journal entry of two years ago in which I described meeting Bob Harris (only recently posted on this website, and accessible here) may recall that I mentioned the time I saw the Divine Comedy in the pub across the road from the gig we'd just seen them play. I remember the three of us standing at the bar and looking over at their table, earnestly debating as to whether we should approach Mr Hannon to tell him how much we'd enjoyed the show. It was only when we realised how tired he looked that we decided that being a celebrity is not an open invitation for pestering from the masses, and we left them to their lager.

I tend not to see too many famous people, and it's always a judgement call as to whether you actually talk to them or not. In the case of Bob Harris, purchasing groceries in the co-op, I decided that a quick hello wouldn't be a bad idea - it was only when I found myself stumbling over my words in the presence of such a radio god that I realised that approaching him had probably been a mistake, however nice he was. I experienced a similar error of judgement a few months later in Winchester cathedral, when we saw Patricia Routledge with a couple in their late twenties, presumably her children. As we passed in the aisles, I decided that it couldn't hurt to at least say hello, and whispered "Loved the Talking Heads, Mrs Routledge". She murmured a slightly disdainful "Thank you" without looking up, and I knew instantly that I'd done a silly thing, although at least I managed to steer clear of "LOOK! IT'S THE BUCKET WOMAN!".

Back to the pub, and a few half-whispered exchanges over the table. The sound doesn't carry too well in there, and Josh was whinging, so we had to speak up without increasing the volume so much that they'd hear us next door. I was trying to tell Emily that Helena and Tim were sitting in the next room, and she was craning her head, trying to work out which one was which - it didn't help that in the first place my lousy sense of navigation had directed her to look at the wrong table. Mr and Mrs Knight, who were dining with us (and paying for lunch) didn't know who they were, so I was trying to explain this without making a big deal out of it. Joshua sat and stared at us, before banging his spoon on the table as if to say "I want no part of this fiasco".

What was funny about the whole situation was that, believing that the two of them really ought to be left alone, we were trying to behave as normally as possible and failing miserably. When you're dining in the presence of Hollywood A-list material, and have already decided that as paying customers lunching with their friends they are entitled to their privacy and that you are categorically not going to bother them for an autograph, you spend most of your time trying very hard not to stare. This is more difficult than it sounds, because you suddenly become aware of your every move. And you realise, as Mrs Knight pointed out later, that when you're in a restaurant full of people that you don't know, you normally spend a lot of your time looking around randomly to see what they're doing.

So when I left the table to fetch in Joshua's supply of biscotti from the glove compartment, I found myself strolling casually but purposefully through the main restaurant, in an earnest attempt to avoid eye contact. Burton and I exchanged a momentary glance and I thought he might be frowning, and instantly worried that it was because of me. When our food arrived a few minutes later, I realised that it had been served before theirs - not unreasonable given that there were fewer of us and that we'd ordered first, but all the same a part of me was concerned that they might be bothered by it. Both of these delusions are of course absolutely ridiculous, but irrational fears generally are.

At least, it's partly that. The other part of it is a sense of embarrassment - I think that it's quite possible to destroy the facade of untouchable greatness with just one mental image. A couple of weeks ago, Em and I watched Burton's remake of Planet of the Apes: I'd seen it before and didn't reckon much of it the first time, but thought it was important that we take an interest in our neighbours' work. (All right, calling them neighbours is something of an exaggeration, but they're still local. Bite me.) As Helena pranced around in her ape suit and I fretted anew about the fact that I found her quite sexy when she was covered with hair, Emily gazed at the admittedly impressive makeup job and said "Well, I don't think there's any danger of me recognising her round the village if she looks like that!"
Playing along, I said "Sweetheart, you do know it's a costume, don't you?"
"Yes, I know."
"Anyway, I know she looks a bit silly, but this is where they met. And if Tim fell in love with her despite her strange appearance - if he was able to see past the hair and lips - then it must be true, mustn't it?"
"On the other hand," Emily countered, "perhaps it wasn't despite - perhaps it was because of. Maybe the ape thing was what did it for him. Maybe she keeps the monkey suit in her bedroom, and puts it on when they want to get kinky."

I somehow doubt we'll see much of them again, and that's probably all for the good. I have a feeling that I won't be able to keep a straight face for very long.