You learn certain things about people when you live in a small village.
Like Mr Bartlett who always order three pints of lager before a pint of bitter, or Mrs Caraway who will always bake a malt loaf for the August fair despite claiming for the past six months that she was going to try something new.
Everyone is odd. You just notice it more in small villages.
Thomas Green however, was very odd. One Christmas he collected odd socks from the neighbours, and hung them around his porch.
I asked my mother why.
“Because,” she said. “He just does.”
I was really stuck for what to write this week, and since my car’s suspension decided to give up on me over the weekend, leaving me stuck in Shropshire with my parents, I thought why not draw upon local inspiration. [In the sense of odd neighbours, no one I know actually hangs odd socks as decorations.]