A WORM, whose virile body had been toned to pink perfection by days of subterranean squirming, nosed through a crack on the warm pavement outside the village tanning studio, where he yawned and blinked, before returning to the comforting cool of the earth – to fetch his shades and a long drink, I guessed.

Over his hole flip-flopped the feet of women advancing towards the ultra-violet rays of the studio’s sunbed, eager to darken their flesh until it reached the gravy shades favoured by beach bums, TV presenters, politicians and the editors of celebrity magazines.

“What a crazy world,” I whispered to myself, not for the first time in a life of many highs and lows, as the confident sun rose in naked brilliance over the Cross on the grey steeple of our church.

“Gorgeous day,” I said more loudly to a smiling chap walking towards me. His brown arms and wide-hipped gait suggested a medium-fast swing bowler, who had in the later stages of his cricketing career captained the 3rd XI, introducing young bloods to the wonders of the old pavilion on the green – the shudder of the roller, the cough of the mower, team photographs fading on the walls, an inscribed panel for the dead of two world wars, salad teas and damp ham, powdered widows, the clock which stopped at quarter to four; grassy mud clinging to the studs of freshly whitened boots, creaking along the ancient timbers; the smell of stale beer, men sitting on stools along the bar remembering, always remembering.

“Grand,” he replied. “A grand summer’s day. It makes you feel young again.”

Ah, the eternal optimism of an Englishman stretching to feel the first touch of summer. It makes us all happy again, vanquishing the gloom.

In celebration, I undid the third button down on my Sunday shirt, boldly revealing the rim of my vest and the three grizzled hairs creeping over it. “By Jove!” intoned an elderly spinster, as she raised a rear wheel on her battery-charged tricycle, while negotiating a gentle corner.

After buying the newspaper, I sauntered into the village store and saw the same chap, whose face now carried the worry-creases so often worn by a man in a shop – the expression of a rain forest Indian contemplating the changing colours on a set of traffic lights, the anxious missionary dipping his finger into the simmering waters of the sacrificial pot, or a devout atheist invited by foaming evangelists to read St John’s description of the empty sepulchre.