In The Pink

A woman in a pink anorak leading a small Jack Russell just walked past my house! I know! It's a first! I get cyclists sometimes, large jolly groups chatting away in pairs or trios. I hear them way down the lane on still, warm days, the men discussing seriously the marvels of their bicycle gears, the women laughing their heads off at the absurdity of what someone said, or did. I'm on a cycle route, so this is not infrequent. Otherwise I get tractors towing massive farm machinery according to the season, and occasional huge lorries carrying chilling loads of livestock; the school bus goes by twice a day - I could set my watch by its passage (pity the poor tardy schoolchild); and cars, from time to time. Horses often clipclop past then tuck into the field beside me for a brisk canter. But walkers? Almost never. Who was she? I didn't see her return, and recognised neither her nor the dog. All answers on a postcard please.

And then blow me down with a waft of hot air from the Rayburn's extractor fan if another person didn't walk past not an hour later! What is this, Oxford Street? He was a tall, youngish man dressed all in yellow heavy weather gear, and as he passed my house he tucked into the field like the horses and walked along the inside of the hedge. I was just going out, so my antennae twitched. Who could he be? Was he in cahoots with the pink lady, both of them camouflaged as normal people but really burglars? As I drove slowly past I squinted through the thinning hedge to see where he was. Then I spotted him, crouching down beside a telegraph pole with a large bag open in front of him. And there was his van at the end of the lane, an official looking one with a logo. BT, Open Reach, call it what you will. Danger over, for now. But I hope they don't make a habit of this. Anyone would think I lived on a public thoroughfare.