Living in a parish that had the character of the bottom of a pocket, with only one way out, meant that everyone knew who was where and doing what without being told, or, when told, came back with a dismissive, Sure I knew that. In this way there was no news that was new, because someone had it before you, and someone before him, and her too, anything that happened getting picked up by the wind and travelling on, and, a snap of the fingers later, at the back door of every other house, drawn in on boots and set steaming before the fire, to take on the cooked nature of story.
