The crane.

The wobbly scaffolding comes down. The powerwasher and his mate in the green corduroy cap have finished. The war memorial gleams as if almost new. They started to repaint the names that had been washed off but have stopped. The paint is working into the pores of the marble. '' It looks like smudged mascara '' says the mayors secretary to the small crowd of locals that have gathered to watch.

In the afternoon an enormous blue crane appears on the village green. It, and an equally large piece of tunnelling equipment, have arrived to work on the German billionaires garage. The truck delivering the crane has reversed and somehow managed to get wedged between the corner of the church wall and the base of the war memorial. There it stays until three pot bellied men with walkie talkie's show up. After much revving of engines and some rather indecorous language the crane is unloaded and the large truck driven off.  There is now a metre long chunk of limestone missing from the churchyard wall.

From time to time Sophie let's out a '' should I be supervising ? " yelp. Bob, by contrast, isn't bothered by all this activity. He stands on guard at the front gate.  Like all PON's he knows ' You exist in time , but you belong to eternity '.