Every rural idyll has its "frigging brigadier" as Jake Thackeray would have it, and here's no different. Ours carries the burdens of the world on his shoulders, at least until he can unload them onto me as I walk past with the dog.
Twice he's reached a moment when the sheer volume of horrors of modern life appears to be funnelling into a vortex of doom swirling across the fields towards him as he shakes his head and says "And did you know, the CEO of Prudential is a black man?"
These last couple of weeks, by way of a change, it's the colour yellow that's been vexing him. I may have a few details wrong but apparently rape is the bringer of hay-fever, headaches and nose bleeds and last week a nasty outbreak of yellow fever in Sutton Maddock. It renders the soil barren, and causes johnny foreigner to feather the nests of bastard farmers with subsidies sucked from the souls god-fearing huntsmen. And all so a bunch of deluded food snobs can pay a tenner for a bottle of extra virgin vegetable oil.
Personally, I rather like it when the fields are in full-bloom as they are now, so full of colour it actually hurts the eyes. There's a view between here and Kemberton of ten huge fields stretching across the landscape as far as the eyes can see that I can stand and admire for as long as it takes the swallows to tire Bobby out.
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About Me
- Gary
- In my twenties I was a failed poet. In my thirties I wrote a book on gambling which was very nearly published. In my forties I wrote a small book about moving from London to Shropshire, which remains unpublished. Into my fifties and the quest continues...
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