On a wet hill at Easter, I learned to stop being uppity

AN Easter walk over rolling hills sounds lovely, all wide-open space and baby lambs and blue sky.

There will be 15 of us, carrying little picnic backpacks. We will walk up hill and down dale, breathing in clean air, connecting with nature, feeling morally superior.

We meet in a supermarket car park on the edge of town, at the start of the rolling hills. It’s misty and windy, but nobody has texted to cancel, and I don’t want to be the only one to pike out and stay at home with the Lindt chocolate bunnies. No. That would be weak. What would Nietzsche say? What would Madonna do? Everyone is covered head to toe in North Face waterproofs and hiking boots. Some are carrying those funny ski poles, although there is no snow for thousands of miles, just soggy hills. (I’m in fake leopardskin, because it’s the nearest I’ve got to waterproofs. I soon realise my mistake.)