A cyclist rode past me on the lane tonight, coming from the
opposite direction. I said ‘good evening,’ but there was no response, and we
were in the shadow of some trees so I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a
woman.
What kind of weird person rides a bike around country lanes
after dark? And why didn’t he or she answer my greeting? Could it have been a
lunatic, maybe, activated by the power of the Wolf Moon?
So how many lunatics can be accommodated in one English
country village? Does one of us have to go? The position of Village Idiot is
much prized in my book, and not to be relinquished lightly.
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