When I first moved here, this sad, broken fragment of an old water fountain sat over the brook.
I was told that it had been vandalised last year. When I expressed incredulity (vandals? in our sleepy backwater? our sleepy backwater where nothing escapes the attention of the locals?) I was told with a sigh that yes, vandally things had happened last year. Details were sketchy. As ever, I was careful not to mention that "where I used to live, yadda yadda yadda, vandalism? Tell me about it!" I didn't wish to give the impression that I hailed from Sodom and Gomorrah, UK.
And then early one morning recently, I noticed this:
The water fountain fairies had been in the night.
And no one could understand how this had happened.
Until the other day, when one neighbour gave me the altogether more prosaic version of events. Vandals had not been to blame. Mrs X, whose wall supports the old fountain, had been instructed by the council to remove it, as it was in a dangerous state (although dangerous to what or whom remains unspecified, the brook not being an area where anyone hangs around in 3-inch-deep water waiting for lumps of masonry to fall on their heads).
Mrs X obeyed. The less securely-fastened pieces were removed and stored until a few of the handier husbands or sons got together and repaired, cleaned and reinstalled it. Mrs X had clearly taken its maxim very seriously.
Waste not, want not.
There now, the real story. You heard it from me first.
Don't tell me that nothing exciting happens round here.