Last week this scarecrow stood guard over a field halfway along the valley. Now, somehow, it’s uprooted itself and shifted to a new location, next to some rows of plastic-sealed silage bundles sitting near the bus-stop from which I often catch the Number 62 to Edinburgh. While I’m walking towards the bus-stop, the wind sometimes stirs its empty coat-sleeves and, from a distance, it looks like it’s waving at me.
Now I really wish I hadn’t read W.H. Carr’s short story Mrs Anstey’s Scarecrow, which appeared in The Ninth Pan Book of Horror Stories.