The woman sat alone and stony-faced in the passenger seat of the car as it blocked the road. She was wearing a mask, but I could see that she wore the blankly determined expression of someone who thought they had every right to stop where they liked. Sure enough, the National Trust sticker was on the windscreen.
The driver’s door had been left open by her husband, and I had watched him get out and walk on to the village green to stand up against a tree and relieve himself.
The couple, both in their sixties, had pulled up and parked, for this purpose, in the middle of the road leading to my house. And the hatchet-faced woman in the passenger seat showed not a flicker of interest of any sort as I sat in my car waiting to take the turn she was blocking.
It was a sunny day, and the village green was crowded with children playing.
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