Out in the sticks where 50% of women are inside Range Rovers, I followed the deer down the gravel driveway to the barn conversion where the new faux-modernist chrome-plated garden sculpture is ‘something a bit different’ and ‘absolutely beautiful to look at’ according to the woman with the ‘glass of something lovely’ in her hand. I lost a fiver around here yesterday, I retraced my steps for about ten minutes but there was no sign of it.
Later, a police dog pissed on my van and a bright red man inside a bright red BMW nearly took my wing mirror as he swerved to avoid some horse shit.
In the village, the grown-up paper-girl in distressed denim passed me in the street. She tucked her phone under her chin and folded a copy of The Sun for her next drop without pausing her conversation, ‘She’s having another baby,’ she said, ‘Royal twats!’ She pushed open the gate with her hip, ‘… Yes, well, if I had a decent job I wouldn’t be doing a paper round, would I?’