A murder? None since A pooper in the church pulpit? An unexploded bomb warrants caution. A lost pet is a faff. Someone possibly fleeing the scene of a unconfirmed car bump? Oh yeah, good to go. In truth, June, generally, has been downright shocking. Hear a cop siren wail and I catch myself flinch, easy as a top edge slap to leg gully. And why? Crying with good reason, mind, when forced to scarper. Under foreboding skies, the air display.
Two distant Mustangs and a desultory Swordfish biplane wing-waggle. Poachers from Ryanair crowd-mingle. Seeking out new pilot talent. To the missus and me the Red Arrows and a fish impulse become heads or tails. Simply by the overhead roar. The duck your head, drop your spoon, kind. Back home, the bird feeder is relatively quiet. Gone are the gourmet fat balls. In are poor imitations. The bumblebee causes a lesser shock than I get from answering the phone.
A PC lass. Young but a proper Vera. Alleges me and Fernando the Smart have been involved in a car prang. All very mysterious. No mention of where or when. However, they want to get to the bottom of it. Asked me to pitch up at the station for a chat. It was feedback to gladden the heart. He thought me considerate of his bad back.
Yes, it was a tight space. And the four-by-four his side was absolutely parked too close for his comfort. The angle I parked Fernando was only so he could get out. Plus he noticed me check that Fernando was within the lines. Yes, that slight paintwork scratch is a pain, but it was just another Guernsey day.
The highest number per capita, bar Gibraltar, on our wheezing planet. Maybe the plod have found a helpful Miss Marple. So there I sit. On a hard chair. In reception. In a very interesting old building.
