It may have been that Jane Woodham was not the only one to step out for a celebratory bottle at the news of Margaret Thatcher's resignation.
In November 1990 we left behind a dank and foggy London to rent, for a week, a cottage in Sandringham, Norfolk.
Fresh air was long overdue; bracing walks, Wellington boots, a decent pint in a quiet pub.
Curled up with a book, log fire blazing, television on, sound down, I stretched and yawned.
On the television Margaret Thatcher stood outside No 10, lecturing at the camera.
I returned to my book.
Glancing up later, she was still there; the woman was spoiling my day.
I was on my feet, poised to turn the image off when it occurred to me that something might be amiss.
I turned up the volume and sank to my knees in front of the screen.
Was I hearing things?
I jumped to my feet.
''Quick. Come here. It's Thatcher. She's resigned, she's only blimmin' resigned!''
We cheered, we whooped, we leapt around the cottage.
She'd been prime minister for almost my entire adult life. We were released.
It was over.
The Tories' days were numbered!
Sandringham is a Tory stronghold. Rather than go to the pub, and to keep our jubilation to ourselves, we went straight to the off-licence.
On our return, two stunted-looking dogs ran out of the dark, darting between my feet, growling and snapping. Before I could respond an oddly familiar voice rang out.
''Whisky? Chipper? Here! Bad dogs.''
I glared at the owner, a middle-aged woman in Barbour jacket and headscarf, accompanied by two burly men.
I was about to make a caustic comment about pet behaviour mirroring that of the owner when something stopped me.
For a long moment I was unsure whether to bob, curtsey or tug my forelock, but my English upbringing stepped in and I did what anyone would do in that situation; mutter ''good evening'', nod curtly, and keep walking.
''Was that ... is that ... ?''
''Think so. They do have an estate here, after all.''
''Where do you think she's going?''
I craned my neck to check the woman's progress.
''Well, she's walked past the pub, so she must be heading for the off-licence. Like us.''
On our walk back to the cottage I noticed yellow catkins bursting on the hazel trees and crocus poking from under fallen leaves, and recalled the expulsion of the white witch from Narnia, and the gradual return of spring.
• Jane Woodham is a writer of long and short fiction.
