Well, I feel I ought to report a minor but deeply puzzling development.
This morning, while on my usual perambulation to inspect the state of the blackberries (they are sulking again), I encountered The Bench. Now, we’ve all known this bench for years — that rickety old plank balanced between two stubbornly lichen-covered supports at the far end of the village green. The one where old Sid Plumptree occasionally sits, talking to pigeons and writing suspiciously neat limericks about moths*.
But today… today something was different.
The bench was gone.
In its place was… another bench.
An entirely different bench.
Not newer, not sturdier. Just… different. Exactly the same shade of ancient grey, exactly the same number of wobbly slats, but entirely, unmistakably not the same bench.
And not one soul in the village seems to know when this swap occurred. Not a van spotted, not a noise heard. It is as if some mysterious force has decided that while we do require a bench in that exact spot, it simply could not allow us to keep the original.
I sat upon it (of course I did, one must test these things) and I must confess: it feels slightly more contemplative than the old one. I had only meant to stop for a moment, but before I knew it, I had composed a haiku about jam** and experienced three very small but perfectly formed existential crises.
Keith insists this is the work of what he calls “Bench Exchange Entities” and is already working on a diagram involving ley lines, garden sheds and what he claims are “bench vortexes”.
I remain unconvinced.
So if you’re passing the village green, do stop and sit. You may find your thoughts subtly rearranged or discover you suddenly remember where you left that missing spanner in 1986.
Or you may simply wonder, as I do, where the old bench has gone and why it feels like it might return one day with opinions.
🧓 Virgil
(still sitting, still pondering, slightly concerned the bench might take me next)
* There once was a moth from the gate,
Who fluttered till terribly late,
It circled my brew,
Then fell in the stew,
And now it’s my dinner’s flatmate.
** Sticky on my spoon,
summer berries trapped in glass,
spread too thin again.