Lush Places: a shaggy dog story

In Lush Places, the village square is full of tradesmen’s vans of varying hues. They park where they can, while the bus attempts to do a three-point turn and pedestrians do body swerves to get to the post box.

As the builders go for it with the angle-grinder on the roof of the Grigg extension, there is a thick layer of dust over everything.

Up in the eaves, the builder finds a keepsake tucked away by someone from a past life. Not for us a petrified raven, or a pair of shoes to ward off the witches.

In Lush Places, our hidden gem is an old empty packet of Players cigarettes. Two cards fall out, part of the interesting dog collection. We have an Irish setter and what Mr Grigg reads as a ‘wohc wohc’.

‘They used to be called chow chows when I was a boy,’ he says, peering at the image.

‘They still are,’ I say, picking up the card and looking at it closely.

‘It’s a transfer.’

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