Windy day in Oxfordshire. It's one of those days where you put the laundry out on the line and, half hour later, treat yourself to a five mile drive to retireve it! That's the kind of day the village fate
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale