Neither can I hear any dogs, barking in the night

All week long in the early morning we have been roused from our beds by the sound of cackling laughter, accompanied by the scraping of shovels on rocky earth.

When we have plucked up courage to peer out of the window, we have watched four or five middle-aged ladies in coolie hats and aprons wielding pickaxes in the land right next to our house.


No-one liked to say anything, but we all observed what was there. That the holes dug so neatly were perfectly shallow and grave shaped. But strange, each night, the ladies filled them in again and quickly left the scene.

Each day this odd business has been repeated, broken only by Wednesday, when a man in a yellow anorak came and looked between the graves and a clipboard.

We have all been too wary to ask what exactly is going on. Dig has suggested that they are examining the ground before building a new house. Tiger says the graves are for us and we are all going to die. I say nonsense! Nonsense to both of you. It is much more likely that here is the Abandoned Women Therapy Group out on a weekly exercise where they dig graves for their absent and undevoted husbands, bury their memories, then shovel in the soil again while laughing hysterically, and my guess is, they will undoubtedly feel much better.

However, I am not totally convinced by my explanation. All is not right, and strange things are happening. Like this photo I find on my camera.


I have no recollection of taking this photo, I have no knowledge of these people, and I can only deduce that someone has broken into the house, and put this picture on my phone as evidence in some dastardly deed about to be committed upon us.

I might just double lock the door in case Tiger is right after all.