Mama stands all day at her craft stall, selling lovelylicious notebooks - which I would happily describe to you in intimate detail until your ears fall off - but her achievement is of no significance today.
It is that time of year when Smalltown disgorges onto the streets in its wicker-and-fire festival.
Newcomers, you may see this in terms of its sinisterness and perversion. And I could not explain otherwise, really, because no-one round here knows why. Like all fine local traditions, it just is.
Fetch Edward Woodward. His time is come.