Trumpetless March and a Change of Plan.

Well, darkness has long since fallen on the last day of March, so now it’s official. No daffodils in bloom. I don’t know whether I’ve ever known a March without daffodils before because I never used to take much notice of that kind of thing, but there hasn’t been one since I’ve lived here.

And last night Britain had its lowest March temperature since modern records began: -12.5°C at Braemar in Scotland (that’s 9.5°F.)

*  *  *

I heard another strange noise in Mill Lane tonight. I’m not going to make any attempt to describe it because it evoked no comparison or suggested any phonetic spelling. It was just strange.

I think I’d better not haunt Mill Lane when I’m a ghost. I reckon I’d get far too spooked walking back and forth along there every night, and it wouldn’t do for the ghost to be trembling, would it? I’m not going to haunt Church Lane either. I swear there’s something living in the copse half way along that can cross boundaries and eats everything, including ghosts. It’ll have to be the stretch of lane between here and the pub, I think. Maybe I’ll make the acquaintance of the man who’s buried in the wood a little way down. I’m told he was a coalman in life, so maybe he’ll have a nice warm place to sit on winter nights. Maybe he can also teach me how to call dogs and get them to sit, wag their tails, and look up at me. Then I can have a giggle at all the humans going ‘What the…’