The world from my window

‘Shit happens’ it says in a heart drawn in indelible pink ink at the back of the teenage shelter in Lush Places. And then we’re off, off on a train, the Megatrain to London from Yeovil Junction for just £6 each and then fighting for a space, each dragging two suitcases behind us, on a crowded carriage going to Brighton via Gatwick airport. The evening paper has a 72-point headline raging about the prime minister’s broken promise on immigration. There are two olds next to me, both with beer bellies, one with a Union flag lapel badge and the other with a backpack emblazoned with a logo about the British Interplanetary Something. The one with the flying flag says: ‘Well, we knew that would happen, didn’t we? Come into this country for two weeks and then expected to be treated like a local.’ I'm strapped to the mast and not listening. Around me, black, brown and white faces look at no-one. There is a hubbub of voices in different languages. And then the olds get of

The longer I spend in Lush Places, my enchanted village home in Dorset, the more I realise that there is some kind of magic at work here. Serendipitous things seem to happen all the time and the latest one has unearthed something of a local treasure – A CD featuring fourteen comedy songs by traditional singers and recorded in the village in the mid-1980s. The Wooden Leg’d Parson was rediscovered by folk legend Martin Carthy, who passed it on to record producer Simon Emmerson from The Imagined Village, who lives here in Lush Places. Now, Simon has a box of them to sell, at £10 a time. If you know him, get in touch with him. If you don’t, get in touch with me and I’ll send you one. Doug and Sam Phillips Listening to the laughs in the pub as Doug and Sam Phillips entertained the locals with comedy songs, it feels like you’re right there with them. Those Dorset dialects are magnificent. Some delightful times and tunes with people no longer with us. There’s the lovely, w

Here in the UK, we're having a bit of bother with our doorbell. It's decided not to come out to play. 'Your doorbell doesn't work,' said our neighbour, Mr Champagne-Charlie. 'We know,' we said. 'You'd better get it fixed,' said Mrs Bancroft. So we fixed it. And then it stopped working again. So we went into B&Q to see if we could get a replacement. For forty pounds, we could have a wireless one that played everything from Vivaldi to the Colonel Bogey March . I quite fancied the idea of the latter blaring out and giving it large when Mr Champagne-Charlie next pressed the doorbell. And then I read some of the reviews  and decided it was probably not worth having a new doorbell at all. There's something to be said for being unavailable. On Sunday night, Mr Grigg sat in the dark splendour of our hallway next to the wood burner, waiting for our neighbours to call for us. 'It's no good ringing the doorbell,' Mr Cha