The world from my window

Twenty two years ago, I was digging a hole in the garden for some nicotianas. A little while later, I sat down in the house and had some leftover spaghetti bolognese at six o'clock. It must have been off, I thought, because I got indigestion pretty soon afterwards. I rang my friend and said: 'I think I'm all right but I feel a bit weird. I wonder if you ought to come over?' She was round like a shot. Because, you see, I was a week away from my 'expected date of confinement'. 'I'm sure sure it's nothing,' I said to my friend. 'You idiot,' she said. 'You're in labour.' So we flew over the top road, up and down, past the glorious views of the sea, the grassy knolls, the tree-topped hills and the patchwork blanket of fields, the Devil's Nine Stones, the old radio station and a roundabout called Monkey's Jump. I walked about a bit in hospital but nothing much happened, until I opened a magazine with a full page,...

The sun is shining as I take the spaniels out for their morning walk across the fields. They spring through the long grass and buttercups and plantain, flicking up the dew as they pass. Down on the school allotment, there is a curious structure with what looks like a stuffed body in long trousers and braces. In kitchens and front rooms, the scarecrows are finally taking shape, ready to be placed outside the house at 10 o'clock. Mr Grigg is up at the village hall, ovens at the ready, preparing for the village Big Breakfast. He will be in charge of a kitchen full of lovelies, doing his best Gordon Ramsay impression while I sit out front and take the money. Maths is not my forte, but I'd rather be overcharging impatient customers that than be anywhere near Mr Grigg in a busy kitchen. He will bark and yell and the ladies will love him, as will the male helpers but not in a homoerotic way, you understand. In our hallway, the floor is covered in cardboard to ease the passage of the ...