A seldom-heard noise has just broken the silence of a Sunday morning in Asselby: a siren belonging to one of our emergency services… probably the police. Last summer it was fire engines. I remember sitting in the Black Swan, on one of the blazing hot days, when, in the time it took to drink a pint of chilled lager, a total of seven fire engines, under siren, had raced through the village. It was so hot and dry that fields of wheat, near Barmby, had gone up in flames.
Just spotted this pic of mine in the Guardian, to illustrate an article about whether it’s possible to be moral without belief. Spoiler alert: it is…
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