This Week's Ashbourne Diary.

There was a woman whistling in the supermarket today. Down in the dark corner of the backwoods where I come from, it isn’t on for a woman to whistle. I regarded her at some length (and probably a little aghast) but she ignored me and continued to whistle.

‘You’re whistling,’ I said eventually.

‘So?’

‘Women aren’t supposed to whistle.’

‘Why not?’

‘It makes the wind blow. It’s an old witchy thing.’

‘Oh, right. Well, as long as it doesn’t bring the rain on.’

And then she walked away. She stopped whistling, though, and it started to rain, so maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Who says you can’t have an intelligent conversation with a complete stranger in a supermarket?

*  *  *

I was in the bank and the teller was telling me (what else would a teller do?) about a new account they’ve got which pays 2% interest with instant access. She said if I wanted to open one, I should call this number and ask for Mel. Oh no, not another one! I told her about the proliferation of Mels, and wondered whether the universe was trying to tell me something. I decided to work on a few anagrams of Melanie, but the only thing I got that made any sense was ‘mean lie.’ So where do I go from here?

*  *  *

I bought my Mel a book for her birthday. It’s about a homeless cat called Bob (he wasn’t called Bob when he was homeless and unattached, of course, but he is now.) Anyway, the tomcat-soon-to-be-known-as-Bob was poorly, and got adopted by an equally homeless street musician called James who nursed him back to health. Bob and James are now inseparable and have adventures. So that sounds good.

*  *  *

Best of all, the radio station was playing the choral version of Elgar’s Nimrod when I was driving back along the lanes to come home. Cue to turn up the volume (which is really neat on Renaults because they have three paddle switches on the steering column – volume up, volume down and ‘go away’ – which is very useful when the adverts come on.) I’ve never been much of a drug user at any time in my life so I can’t claim to be an expert on the variety of sensations to be had, but I can tell you this. The odd state of euphoria to which that piece of music unfailingly brings me is better than anything alcohol or cannabis ever managed.

*  *  *

Finally, an apology to the people at the opticians whose praises I sang last week. They’re not Specsavers at all, but Vision Express. Sorry.