Notes from the Potting Shed

 Morning all,

Bit of a crisp start today, as if the dawn had been rubbed briskly across a goose. The mist’s up early and sitting heavy over the cabbage beds like a cat with secrets. I’ve just come in from the lower paddock and there's a peculiar hum in the ground. Not the usual sort — not pipes, nor moles with digestive issues. This is a deep, polite sort of hum, like a monk mumbling through a sock.

Now, I don’t want to alarm anyone (least of all Miss Fairweather, who’s very prone to it and has only recently re-established her sense of balance), but the Travelling Fayre appears to have annexed two entire meadows and a bit of Dryden’s pig loop. There’s a new tent — large, dark red, rather pulsing — and when I leaned in to peek through the flap, my knees became quite opinionated and refused to carry me further. The flap closed of its own accord. I took the hint.

Elsewhere, there’s a man selling fudge from what I’m fairly certain is a Victorian pram, but the fudge appears to be whispering in Latin. Two villagers have already purchased some and were later seen staring intently into puddles, murmuring about the “sugar beneath.” Do let me know if you spot anything similar, or if the fudge begins making requests.

The youngest Elbury child has started speaking exclusively in rhyming couplets, which is fine, except she now predicts weather events with eerie accuracy and is terrified of spoons. Her father claims this is normal, but he has also nailed all his shoes to the ceiling, so his judgement is up for debate.

Oh — yes — and still no sign of Terry, despite half the village (the half not suffering terrible candyfloss cramps) turning out last night to comb the village and surrounding fields to locate him. He was last seen near the hot dog(?) stand. If anyone spots a man matching his description (over 60, mainly beige, slight limp, smells of creosote and mild disappointment), do let Pamela know. She’s worried but also quite cross with him, which I suppose is love.

Right — kettle’s just begun hissing in a new octave. Might be a good day for oolong and garlic toast.

Yours in bafflement,
Virgil
(Shwami, Allotment 7b, Acting Liaison to the Paranormal Bunting Committee)
🍬🎪🌫️🧃