The countryside's social etiquette is a fluid but omnipresent structure which allows the forming of tangible and long-lasting bonds with people who are more practically-minded, better equipped and infinitely more experienced than us, the newcomers. Social rules also apply to those who want to embrace another network, the TWATs (Toffee-nosed Wellies Abandoning Town), people who snap up all the Grade-II mini-manors with their own orchard and wild flowers' meadow, enduring commuting hours of smelly and sweaty trains to the city every day.

TWATs, a category to which - strictly speaking just in principle - we only loosely belong, having neither the mini-manor nor the orchard and meadow, recreate in the countryside the same kind of atmosphere one can find in certain boroughs of London; the cream teas and Pimms in private gardens, pearl necklaces and matching earrings, shopping at the local exclusive garden nursery, sending the children to public school on a 30-mile round bus trip.

I am sure that there are Veuve Cliquot-sponsored polo matches taking place somewhere around here to which, as my networking skills have yet to develop that far, we have not been invited.

There are a few important events and activities to which non-participation would mean certain social death: one is the 'coffee rota' at the local church. The building needs re-pointing so badly that it is not just the mice which enter and leave at their pleasure, but also cats, badgers and hedgehogs. There is something very upper-class in the decadent decline of a unique historical building, an outlandish sense of romantic pride without the money - the cash, of course, having all been spent on the purchase of the mini-manor and the children's education. Nowadays, only footballers and celebrities have new money to play with.

This Mary Magdalene here does her coffee rota duty every month; I have no qualms in admitting that I rather enjoy it. I love my little display of crockery and cutlery, large teapot and tin box of biscuits. I arrange the dozens of cups like obedient soldiers on an immaculate battlefield, rows and rows of them, waiting to be filled with either tea or coffee. The only battle that ever takes place is between the churchwardens and I, with me insisting that we should be allowed biscuits with the beverages and them pointing out that crumbs strewn all over the ancient tiled floor encourage mice to come in and feast.

I haven't got the courage to tell the wardens that wildlife would come in regardless; it is - in a way - part of the church itself, with nature weaving in and out of man's creation and God supervising.

From behind the worktop, where I stand serving the drinks, I watch the local community and the many small tragedies unfolding every Sunday: somewhere in the back pews, an older gentleman will start snoring away half-way through the service, the sharp smell of red wine oozing from his body and clothes. A young couple over there will squabble, hissing whispers at each other about whose turn it is to take the crying toddler out of the church. Everywhere the misery of human mind and everyday petty nuisances will mix with the smell of frankincense and the angelic voices of the choir.

I smile a thousand smiles every time I serve another coffee; in the background, Pest n.1 and Pest n.2 circle the church like little vultures waiting for people to finish their drink so that they can collect the empties and return them to me: a rare display of helpfulness, made more palatable by the very real possibility that running with empty cups clanging together in small hands might result in breakage, cuts and overall blood spillage.

I wonder whether God sits up there tut-ing at my very presence in His house. We have endless conversations about my own personal failings, but no matter how loving and gracious He may be about the way I lead my poorly lived life, and the lashings of forgiveness bestowed upon me, I shall still come out of church having noticed that Mr Vroom is not there.

The vegetable patch is ominously empty, despite cabbages, potatoes and rhubarb growing like monstrous carnivorous plants.

I occasionally look at Mr Lost's business card and wonder whether I should be calling him. According to the card he is a solicitor. Are solicitors usually charming people or is it a prerequisite of their professional persona?

Would he still remember TWAT Emma with her wellies and waxed jacket? Would countrified Emma look completely out of place in modern, fast-moving London?

I allow myself a tiny reverie, with Mr Lost and I walking along an empty path in the middle of an unidentified London park. He is telling me that I may be more 'lost' than he is, but not as fragile.

'Ah! Ms Fragile meets Mr Lost', sneers the snake under the bare foot of a stuccoed Madonna tucked away in a dimly illuminated niche, back at the church. 'What a couple you'd make!'

'Shhh!', admonishes the impossibly beautiful rosy-cheeked baby the Virgin is holding, a tubby little finger waggling towards the serpent.

There is no forgiveness.