Dead quiet in Dorset

Living down here, I'm afraid to answer my phone. It's all that high-octane London energy: so-and-so said this and she said that and so-and-so was found dead and blah blah had a baby and this party and that party and this place and that place and X is an ass-hat and so-and-so is sooo cool!

So yes, I’ve largely stopped answering my phone. And now, swathes of time go past without anyone calling me at all - which is actually worse. And it's difficult for me to call people now because pretty much all I can say is 'Hello', given that very little happens down here and no one really gets found dead - apart from the sheep of course, quite a few of which still seem to be dying.

This morning, walking up the lane, I met the old man Tom. Together we lent on the gate and he told me there was another dead sheep along by this hedge, and another one on the other side of the lane, and another one up there, swinging wildly with his stick towards the high escarpment.

I then went home, sat at my desk and started to work. I looked up from the screen and saw that the horse in the field opposite had come right up to the window and was looking at me over the stone wall. He was as white as the moon, though a little more curious and kindly looking. So, instead of doing my book, I found that I was thinking things like: I'm looking forward to the summer and seeing you without your clothes on (ever since I've known him he's worn a rug).

Does living in the country make you soft in the head or do you already have to be soft in the head to live in the country? ·