The Shire in the Desert.

The night is wet and windy again, and at such times the walk is undertaken out of habit and for the sake of the exercise. There are no heavenly bodies to be seen (and no, I’m not going to demean myself by making the obvious joke.)

What we do have at this time of the year are external displays of festive lights – the pub and three houses close to it have them. The bottom of my lane at Christmas is about the nearest we get to Las Vegas in The Shire. And the only foray into gambling activity is the taking of a car along Shields Lane after heavy rainfall, hoping to keep the electrics dry and the wheels away from water-filled potholes of indeterminate depth.

I thought of going into the pub and singing, but decided I don’t have the energy at the moment. Besides, I look more like a scarecrow than Sinatra when I go out at night. And talking of scarecrows…