Kayt Turner: ‘Church ladies are formidable enough individually; en masse they are truly terrifying’

I’LL give her this – Mother Turner knows how to big up a night out. She invited us for an evening of “fine wine, luxury nibbles and gambling”.

Well, my dears, I hardly need say that we were there in a flash. We met outside one of Edinburgh’s more chi-chi cafes. It was, admittedly, a peculiar location for this forthcoming evening of debauchery, but we were prepared to go with it. Really, we shouldn’t have been surprised when it turned out that she had connived to get us along to a church social cheese and wine fundraiser for the new roof. The gambling? Yes, you’ve guessed it – a raffle.

I’d like to say that by night it was transformed into a glittering palace of wonders, but, no. It remained the small, overheated and overlit space that it is in the daytime. Only now it was a small, overheated room with the tables pushed up against the wall and far too many people in it. Not only that, but these were people who didn’t know how to behave in a crowded bar. You and I know that if you are politely tapped on the shoulder, you move ever so slightly over to allow someone through. Should the gentle tap not have the desired effect a subtle cough should seal the deal. However, none of that is going to happen when you’re dealing with a bunch of deaf pensioners with dowager humphs. Grrr. Finally, we admitted defeat and stopped trying to move through the room at all. We took up position beside a rather lovely Chablis and some gorgeous stilton, and waited for the raffle to be drawn – I know, my life’s just glamour, glamour, glamour.

But what do you know? Mother Turner obviously has the ear of Lady Luck because the first number out of the hat (well, the Tesco carrier bag) was ours. Off I scurried to collect the loot. No sooner had I fought my way back to Mother and Son, when another number of ours was called. I promptly about faced and scampered off again. With my hands on the prize a voice behind me whispered (I say whispered, but it was designed to be heard by the entire room), “That gerrull has been up already.” I decided to ignore it, snatched the small selection box of port to my bosom and moved off.

But, as I say, the rub of the green was with us. Lo and behold, did we not get another number? Back I went to scoop up the prize. But my luck had most definitely run dry.

I had my hand out, fingers within millimetres of a festive Dundee cake, when a “polite” cough behind me drew my attention to a line-up of church ladies. Formidable enough individually; en masse they are truly terrifying. “Don’t you think,” they said, “that you’ve had enough?”

Now, I know there are lots of answers to that remark. I thought of them all when, having been shamed into leaving my prize behind, I was walking back.

At that point, we thought it best to leave. Mother Turner hoped we had enjoyed her night and that our evening hadn’t been spoiled by the events of the raffle. We told her we had been surprised to find ourselves at a church social, but that, yes, we had enjoyed the wine. Yes, we had enjoyed the luxury nibbles. And the gambling? Well, that was the same as every other gaming establishment we’ve ever been in: the house (even when it’s the Lord’s) always wins.