Friday 16 October 2020

The Mystery Man in Our Midst.

I think I have a rival in the Shire. He lives in a detached house, which shall be nameless, surrounded by a modest garden. He keeps the gates to his drive shut and locked – which is most unusual for these parts and previous tenants never shut them – and there’s a big red notice on them in a foreign language. It appears to say ‘no mail’, but I can’t be sure because I don’t know what language it’s written in. There’s another notice in English instructing delivery drivers to ring his mobile for attention, which is also unheard of in these parts, and I’ve seen him in his garden accompanied by a dog of unfamiliar breed.

This is a little mysterious, you understand, and seriously untypical of an English country village mostly populated by people who are comfortably well off, drive around in 4x4s waving at everybody they know (which is more or less everybody), attend the summer garden show at the village hall, and vote Tory by default even if the candidate is a headless chicken.

This man does not belong, and one is left to speculate that he is either engaged in some nefarious activity or is even more reclusive than I am. In either case, I fear he is likely to be chased to the burning mill with pitchforks ahead of me. Should I mind?

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