THE VILLAGE square is deathly quiet.
The red pelargoniums around the village pump are fading now and the white nicotianas outside my house look like long, spidery tendrils and they’ve given up the ghost.
The shop has been closed now for almost three weeks but still cars pull up, drivers get out, try the shop door, then look at their watches, shrug, get back in their cars and drive off again.
I’ve just had an email from a local district councillor, pointing me to a Lottery-funded scheme to set up local enterprises.
‘I’m sending you this because I hear your Village has closed.’
He’s missed out a word, but it sure feels like it.
And now it’s raining.