Normally he liked hedge-flanked Devon lanes in which one could trace the year’s
progression: snowdrops, daffodils, bluebells, red campion...
Ahead, though, was a tanker
delivering heating oil, the driver refusing eye contact; behind him a
range-rover, occupied by a woman shrugging her don’t-expect-me-to-reverse
gesture.
Late yet again: bugger bucolic
bliss.
© Tim Scott
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