The world from my window

Well, it's been a weekend full of activity here in the village. The Christmas tree lights are all up around the square, twinkling in the frosty evenings. Last night a man came to view the cottage. He was 40 minutes late and as we were just about to go out he got the bum's rush. I recognised his voice from the warmth of my front hall, as he was sent away with a flea in his ear. This was the little, goatee-clad and bespectacled pixie who had called at my door two years ago claiming to be not only a mystic but the reincarnation of James I. The biggest fool in Christendom indeed! Apparently he was attracted by the ley lines crossing through the square. He told me all about the ancient tribe that lived on the hill, kept gesturing to his little car and talking about someone called 'Olive' (I wasn't sure if he was referring to the car or an imaginary friend in it). Now I had a name, I googled him. Yep, found him. Now a mystic but one-time founder member of an obscu...

One of our nearest towns is Chard, the birthplace of powered fight and home to the cooked meat factory, whose smells envelop my vegetarian sister's house like cling film wrapped around a cucumber. In the Seventies Chard was reputed to have the highest crime rate for a town of its size, second only to Glasgow. The highest town in Somerset, where the water in the gutters on each side of the street ends up in different places - one goes south to the English Channel and the other turns left and goes to the Bristol Channel. The town is full of Chard Hards, who tend to go sleeveless in the coldest weather to prove their masculinity. And that's just the women. Several people I went to school with ended up being murdered or turned out to be murderers themselves. One went out in a blaze of glory in an armed police siege in a lane high above the town. One of the best bits about Chard these days is Lidl. There are special deals all the time but I'm not surprised there are lots of fr...

Introducing the world from my window… Hi, I’m Maddie Grigg and the world from my window is ever-changing. Living in a village square, you see all sorts of things – from morris dancers performing outside the pub on a balmy summer’s evening to huntsmen gathering for the stirrup cup next door before setting off for their first hunt of the year. We have Palm Sunday processions down to the church with a donkey brought in for the occasion, drivers parking like French people – anywhere – to nip into the shop for a paper and cows being herded to fresh pastures on the other side of the village. It’s hardly the most exciting of places, but you never quite know what’s going to happen next. This week, a ginger wig blew past the window up Church Path. This morning I see the paperboy going about his round in his usual sleepy state, nearly getting knocked over by Scooter Boy who zooms by at 7.30am on the bike-with-no-silencer, followed ten minutes later by Glidoh-Girl, whose moped s...