On Being Boring and Alone.

When I went for a walk this morning it occurred to me that I’ve probably become one of those terribly boring people who talk about terribly boring things because they don’t realise how boring those things are to normal people. (I recall there being a TV comedy once in which a man called Eric Outhwaite was enthusiastically telling his mother about a friend of his who had bought a new shovel: ‘And do you know where he keeps it? Next to th’old one.’ The basis of the humour was that Eric was the most boring man alive.)

The point is this, you see: I have observed that most people want to talk about the current contestants on Strictly Come Dancing, or who’s the latest person to be murdered in East Enders, or which football team is likely to win the Premier League.

I, on the other hand, want to talk about the fact that horse chestnuts are the first of the standard trees to fully leaf in the spring, or the fact that council workmen have mowed the verges in Church Lane thereby destroying this year’s mass of delightfully-scented meadowsweet plants, or the fact that one of the farmers is growing broad beans this year instead of maize.

And that, I’m constrained to say, is why it’s fortunate that I walk alone.