An excerpt from The Village Tales of Fekenham Swarberry

The road twisted sideways and then bent around Tollbunt Hill and bore on down toward the mole blind village of Fekenham Swarberry with its curtained windows and honey glow glass.

The night was warm and softly black and the moon waxed a splendid silver and a single owl hooted a solitary sound of winged wisdom.

Mrs Humshaw stood outside her front gate wearing a frown and a rose patterned frock and haloed by a host of flying gnats that buzzed about her head. Her husband, Terrence, 54, ruddy of complexion with a plump disposition and a shallow pocket, was late and had been, according to the local whisper of passing interest, "unavoidably detained on a matter of some urgency" at the local pub, The Frog and Radiator.

"Unavoidably detained my elbow", thought the aggrieved matron. She had murder in her eyes, poison in her heart and a large rolling pin in her hands.

The night drew its arms in tight to keep out the chill and the hedgerow shrank to a small whisper of rustling leaves as the footfalls of Terrence Humshaw ricocheted down the tumblestone, cobblestone roadway.

With lust in his loins for his full bodied wife, a belly a-swishing with warm ale and a bladder to match, he whistled a broken tune that scratched the nights pale eye. Unaware of his darling wife's foul mood he wobbled on toward his home.

He looked like the rudderless wreck of some ancient Spanish Galleon.

She looked like the stone sentinel at the gates of hell.

It was midnight at Rose Cottage and things had a skewed perspective.