Ashbourne A-stirring.

There was a man in the supermarket today, engaged in earnest and lengthy conversation with the staff over the reliability of their payphone.  It seemed he wanted to call a taxi, but was afraid the machine might not work and he might lose his money. The staff were discomfited, and I heard one of them suggest that they might call him a cab from the kiosk, even though the rules in such corporate establishments are somewhat intractable. They just wanted to get rid of him.

He looked to be no more than a few years older than me, but he was stooped and had that redness of nose redolent of a drinking habit rather more serious than mine. Nevertheless, I was led to wonder whether I might not be too far from reaching the same stage.

So, what with the friendly collie, the strange man in the supermarket, the smiling woman in the charity shop who was wearing a dress instead of jeans for the first time ever, and the young woman in the bowler hat who kept staring at me before skipping down the Market Place like a 3-year-old, Ashbourne was wearing an unusually interesting face today. And did I mention the minor car crash on the hill leading up to the Buxton road which caused a tailback all through the town and for some way beyond?

Eat your heart out, Midtown Manhattan. Ashbourne is shaping up to compete.