Yesterday there was a fatality in the village. One of the local ladies died. The end was sudden. She was hit by a car, going northwards. The car could not stop in time. She was killed instantly.
I did not see the accident itself. But I had a gruesome look at the corpse. Not pretty.
The Mini Missus has been complaining recently that there are dangerous parts of this road. Indeed, aged seven, she has written to the Parish Council, to get some SLOW signs installed. Perhaps the death will galvanise the authorities into action.
I haven't told her about it. She'd be upset. She chases the ladies across our paddock. They, the ladies, are the guinea fowl. About a dozen or so in numbers, and spanning a couple of generations, they range freely about the village. Too freely, it seems. The deceased was of their number. Her body was being retrieved from the road by the farmer's wife, whose bottom lip was out, if not exactly quivering. I stopped. She looked at me with almost moist eyes.
"Casserole?" I asked.
"Casserole," she agreed.
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