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.