Tuesday 6^th October 2009

 I retreated to the country last Friday, to participate in family life in a small village outside Bath. There is a mother and father and their son is my godson. Hurtling down the motorway, or rather not hurtling but blocked by filth, I suddenly thought: Smallmeal!  This is the time on a Friday when the Bentley goes forth from the Brentford offices of the landfill or whatever for Massivebury, bearing the tiny scowling face of Smallmeal under that swirling mass of Lord Lichfield-style grey hair.

 I don’t think I’ve mentioned that Massivebury is near Swindon; the main gates are but a stone’s throw from a mean housing estate. But there is a longer, more scenic approach from the rear.

 Well, no sign of the Bentley, which is probably for the best. I doubt that my nippy, perfectly-formed, official car, as it is known, could have taken on the Bentley and won. Instead there are endless notices lit up overhead, saying ‘Slow down. Debris in Road.’ On and on, they go. I am increasingly bemused. I see no sign of Smallmeal.

 He must have been cleared out of the way earlier. They’d forgotten to switch off the signs.