Danger: men at work

There’s drain clearing going on in the village.

It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.

There are cones and ‘men at work’ signs everywhere. And tsk, tsk, a big, bearded bloke in a liveried truck is using his mobile phone for texting as he drives up the road, his knees doing the steering.

A disembodied backside leans down into a manhole; a workman’s bottom you could park your bike in.

Cars are going this way and that, dodging the orange and white cones laid out like chicanes.

A traffic light stands, incongruous, at the bottom of the street, its red light saying quite firmly: ‘No’.

It’s a lot of traffic management activity for a small place. And far too much excitement for me. I retreat from walking in the fields and the bluebell woods, away from the singing birds and the sunshine and into the spare bedroom to get on with some work.





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