The act of writing thoughts down can do peculiar things. One might wander off and get itself into bother. Another might fall into bad company and never come home again. Some make you shiver. They’re the ones screaming and shouting, ‘Don’t write about me!’ because they’re afraid of fate.

I wanted to tell you some thoughts I had this morning. About the man and his German Shepherd who stepped into a hedge to let me drive past. About squirrels and chaffinches and primroses. About the hummock above the village where I always stop the car so I can pick out familiar houses, including my own.

I wanted to start by saying, ‘A drive to the doctor’s used to mean traffic lights and roundabouts and slow-moving buses. But now it means crossing Hope Mountain…’.

You see what the thought did when I wrote it down.