Sex, drugs and Shires: Ambridge plays away Rob: Leave it out, Jolene, That's my Amber. Friend of the family, shall we say? Lovely isn't she? Blue curaçao and Amaretto, suit you, Amber? Amber: Don't talk to me, Rob Titchener. This place ronks of cow-poo. It was never like this in Bombay. They had respect for cows there. Bursts into tears. Rob: Listen, Jolene, unless Amber gets to be a Hindu-goddess-themed bridesmaid, your wedding's off, and Kenton's little earner will be splashed all over the Borchester Echo. I know it only comes out online now, but someone will notice. Anthea Jennings, for one, that unconvincing new office manager of Lilian's. She's very computer-savvy. Not surprising, really, when you think that she's on the run from GCHQ after passing secrets to the FSB via Matt Crawford. A shot rings out. Amber: Nooo! Rob, Jolene. I never meant it... Cheery "Barwick Green" plays to fade. Clarrie: Ooh, my poor leg. It's gone to sleep. Mind you, it's just about the only part of me that has. That's the trouble with these three-in-a-bed capers. Can't you roll over a bit your way, Lynda? Lynda: I've hardly got room as it is. The edge of the mattress has made a distinct indentation all the way down my right thigh. Anyway, you didn't come here to sleep. This is meant to be an afternoon of hot passion, and the whole thing went off the rails because you would insist on arriving three quarters of an hour late. What's going on, that's what I'd like to know? Clarrie: I could'n help it. I had to finish the flower arranging at St Stephen's, and what should I stumble across in the south aisle but Alan in flagrante with Elona Makepiece. Right under the memorial plaque to Tom Forrest too. Disrespectful, I call it. A vicar too. So I had to hide in the children's play area until they'd finished. Took their time, they did. The Eastern European economic migrant hussy! Adam: That's enough of your institutional Borsetshire racism, Clarrie Grundy. It's bad enough you suddenly talking like Pam Ayres. Just top up my glamorous champagne-style cava rosada, and pass another Viagra. Lynda: You're a fine one to talk, Adam. Pretending to be gay for all those years, and all the time consumed with desire for Clarrie and me. Though what you see in that dumpy madam, I really don't know. It's Ian I feel sorry for. Mind you, I hear that David's been giving him some comfort. A considerable amount. Adam: Shut it, Lynda, or the peregrine falcon in the church tower gets it. And the chicks too. SFX of passionate kiss, very much like the beery lip-smacking in the previous episode Clarrie: Oh, no! I've rolled on me Bakewell Fancies. Whatever'll I tell Eddie? Cue "Barwick Green" Jill: So let me get this straight, Helen. Rob Titchener was Paul Morgan all along. He hadn't died in that hotel room. How come Lilian didn't recognise him? Helen: I injected a mind-altering drug into her bottles of tonic at the village shop. It was child's play. And while I was pretending to have a wild affair with Rob, I was really sheltering Elona. She's the one I really love. She was only pretending to Alan. And all along, she was married to Rob, in Hampshire, unbeknown to Celia Redwood. Elona and I are going to make a new beginning in St Petersburg, just as soon as the money from Rob's forged will comes through. Jill: But why shouldn't I go straight to the police? Helen: Because I know that Jack was the brains behind the whole thing. If that got out, it'd kill Peggy. Jill: Another scone? (Coolly) They've really turned out well, though I say it myself. Things do in Ambridge, I always find, if you just leave well alone.