Sarah Todd: Mad motorists, mice and then flattened by Yorkshire puddings

WHEN we first came here, a racehorse trainer advised the only way to slow down traffic was to ride down the middle of the road.

On the whole, this more amateur equestrian usually chickens out and clip-clops into the roadside as yet another madman – or woman (probably heading towards the nearby prep school with one hand on the wheel and the other doing her make-up in the rear-view mirror) – speeds past.

However, the idea came to me this week that similar tactics can be deployed behind the wheel.

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It has given me immense pleasure to drive along the stretch of road between our house and the village at 30mph. Nobody could say my car tyre was on the white line, but it’s certainly not cowering across to make overtaking easier. It’s a new hobby that I hope will catch on among friends, family and villagers.

The other night, it was hugely satisfying to see a previously identified culprit absolutely furious, stuck behind and slowed right up, unable to do anything about it.

Like so many rural communities, we have a lane between our village and a much busier road that is used as a rat-run. It should have a speed limit all the way along.

So many parents now come out to country schools from outside the traditional catchment areas that there is a substantial number who don’t seem to have any awareness that people actually live, ride, walk, and cycle along our roads. Some put a lot back in, but a great many seem to be simply focused on getting the little darlings dropped off, from A to B, before the bell rings.

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The very least they should be doing for making our class sizes bigger is driving slowly. Buying their bread in the shop and having a meal at the pub would also be helpful.

The word rat-run is enough to make me jump down from this speeding traffic soapbox. We’ve got mice again. As mice go, they’re quite pleasant looking – like the small rustic cousin in The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse.

We thought we’d blocked every hole with wire wool, but somehow they’re still getting in.

If they’re not in the airing cupboard upstairs, then chances are they’re keeping warm downstairs near the wood-burning stove.

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Yorkshire puddings had been promised with last weekend’s beef, but a shriek went up when the door to the baking kitchen cupboard was opened. Every single bag of flour and sugar had holes in it.

Frozen ready-made puddings were bought instead and everybody raved about them.

“Just the right shape for filling with gravy …” “…so crispy and light” and the one that cut me to the core quicker than anything speeding motorists can inflict: “Much better than mummy’s…”

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