Wednesday: The Cleansing Spreads

Dictated by Virgil Twobyfour, transcribed by Keith

It seems the village is in the grip of an outbreak of cleanliness. Unsettling cleanliness. In a way that suggests some sort of cosmic entity has mistaken the entire place for a rather ambitious cleaning project.

The war memorial, which has stood in a state of dignified neglect since anyone can remember, now gleams like a freshly minted pound coin. The stone, once dull and weathered, shines so brightly it could serve as a navigational beacon for passing aircraft. A curious gleam has settled over it - not the warm, affectionate gleam of something that has endured the ravages of time, but the unnatural gleam of something that has been polished to within an inch of its existence. One might even say it looks too clean. I half expected a small cleaning crew to pop out from behind it, holding up a “Now Hiring” sign.

And the bins, well. Let me tell you about the bins. These humble guardians of refuse, once a rickety arrangement of mismatched containers filled with an organic chaos only a true villager could love, have now been alphabetised. Alphabetised! I can hardly believe it myself. There are cans, neatly sorted by their first letter. Newspapers grouped into tidy piles according to font size. Even the plastic bags - those once unruly, fluttering testament to modern existence - now sit with a quiet dignity in their newly designated corners. It’s as if they’ve been organised by someone who truly believes that sorting waste is the highest form of art.

Old Sid Plumptree, bless him, is walking around in a state of blissed-out serenity that can only be compared to someone who’s discovered that their socks are no longer in pairs, but they don’t care. He claims that his eczema, which has plagued him for years, has completely vanished simply by walking past Ethel on his way to the pub. “Cleared up right quick,” he tells anyone who’ll listen. “And all it took was a brisk ten paces near that woman.” It’s a miracle. Well, sort of. Sid is now glowing like an overcharged glowstick, but there’s something about it that feels suspiciously like an advert for a dodgy skincare product. Still, if it works for Sid...

Rumours are now swirling that Ethel is in league with the Sparkling Ones. A sect so secretive that the only thing more mysterious than their existence is the exact shade of sparkle they embody. This covert group, said to hail from the Darker End of the County, are never discussed in polite company. In fact, any mention of them is enough to get your tea spat out in surprise. A few, however, have been brave enough to whisper that the Sparkling Ones are in possession of an uncanny knowledge of cleanliness. Not just any cleanliness, mind you, but cleanliness on an intergalactic scale. If you listen closely, and I mean really closely, you might hear the faint clinking of a sparkling spoon from behind Mrs. Trubshaw’s lace curtains.

But the real kicker? The ducks. Yes, the ducks. You see, something extraordinary is afoot at the pond. I was watching them this morning, as I am wont to do when I’m trying to avoid the sheer strangeness of everything else, and what should I see but a line of ducks, all wearing little white bibs. No doubt about it - these bibs were immaculately tied, with that perfect little bow under their beaks that you might expect from a butler in a Dickens novel, not a group of semi-aquatic creatures. And, bizarrely, they appeared to be standing in an orderly queue. Waiting. For what? I couldn’t tell. But they were waiting, in an oddly polite manner, as if they were awaiting their turn to sign a petition for better pond conditions. It was a queuing system so flawless it made the queue outside the village shoppe look like anarchy in comparison. One duck even gave me a polite nod. A nod! Not a quack, not a flurry of flapping, just a respectful nod. I had to step back and question my very understanding of the world.

So, it seems that the cleansing is spreading, like an unholy pandemic of tidiness. And I find myself pondering a rather troubling thought: Are we, the good folk of this village, simply too clean for our own good? It would appear so. Cleanliness, it seems, is next to some very strange, unexplained phenomena. And I must confess, I am beginning to wonder just what price we will pay for all this perfect order.

One thing is for certain. The ducks? They are definitely in on it.