Being Bored.

English villages aren’t what they used to be. If, as a stranger, you’d come down my lane a hundred or so years ago – having passed the gibbet which I speculate stood at the top of the lane where the road has three branches – you would probably have had a few pitchforks pointed at you by men in smocks chewing bits of straw and smelling of stale sweat and toilets.

Nowadays you’d probably be ignored completely by professional people driving their children to be schooled in the Little Englander factory (which was going to be the subject of a post but I decided against it) in new or newish prestige cars, mostly black. And whereas the bucolic bastions of yesteryear voted Tory because the local bigwig told them to, the latter-day incomers still vote Tory because they believe that might is right and might is money. Oh, and the local witch isn't frightening any more, merely irritating.

The romance is missing. Oh for the smell of stale sweat and toilets. Or maybe not. And I am exaggerating slightly because today was singularly uneventful and I needed to write something. But it’s partly true.

I kept wanting a sandwich again tonight. I had a rice cake instead. Next up is beer, scotch and buttered toast, but first I have to get wet.