I write a notice.

It is on lined paper, using big black felt-tip pen.

“SMASHED UP CAR. 35p A LOOK.”

But I hesitate and do not take it outside to sellotape up in front of the crowd. They are entitled to their ghoulish excitement at my misery. Not much else has been going on here recently aside from the new retaining wall at the bowling green.

The van driver waits in silence for his boss to arrive to assess his handywork. Hopefully his boss is Sir Alan Sugar or Nicholas van Hoogstraten etc. I do not offer him another coffee. That will show him!!! Stan drives past, slowing as he catches sight of the scene. I shoo him away.

I meander round to Short Tony’s. It transpires that he was on the telephone so did not hear the accident. I invite him to have a look; instead of gawping he gives me some reassuring words. Good karma will surely come his way.

Hours later he appears at the front door. A bus has driven into the back of his car. Mrs Short Tony is shaken. I consider establishing a support group.

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