Being the VSP.

As I was walking past my garage at dusk this evening, I spoke to my car as I always do.

‘Night, night, Mr Renault,’ I said cheerily. ‘See you in the morning.’

And then I heard the sound of footfalls on the lane, the other side of my tall privet hedge. A young woman was walking past with a dog, and she gave me a quizzical look. She walked on a few more paces, and then turned to look at me again. (That makes two double takes in one week.) This should go some way to cementing my reputation as the Village Strange Person.

‘Ere, you know that bloke who lives at Merrybower?’

‘The ugly one who limps sometimes?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I heard him talking to his car tonight.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well there you are, then. I always said he was a Very Strange Person.’

I don’t think anybody’s heard me talking to the trees, the bunnies, or the bats yet. But I expect they will one day.