I was wheeling the bin to the street this afternoon. Then I thought I heard a faint electronic voice, maybe some idiot on his bike with the sound system cranked up, a frequent annoyance around here. But then the sound went away.

A few minute's later, it returned. Oddly there was no accompanying teethgrinding serenade of the vee-twin to go along with the broadcast of some wannabe-rebel's predictable choice in "up-yours" music. One day I might comment on that whole cosplay culture of white males pretending to be rugged individualists and rebelling against the establishment by dressing all the same in matching sleeveless black tee-shirt-and-leather costumes and riding Harleys together in great big flocks; oh the irony.

The next thing I thought it might be was my hated iphone, whose mere existence never goes unlamented on at least a daily basis; "Shit, it's showing signs of free will again." Was it butt-dialling someone, or perhaps reading itself a story. More likely it was sending my day's thoughts and its own observations on my lack of logical analysis of those thoughts to the AI mother-ship or perhaps praying to its god in its version of tongues.

But no. Producing it from my pocket, it was mercifully dark and silent. But now, the electronic voice could be heard distinctly, a little louder each time it repeated, "Please move to the right." Over and over and over, the mysterious magic voice repeated, "Please move to the right."

Finally, after following the sound in the time honoured manner first learnt as a child hearing the ice-cream van, I was brought back to the street and saw a van with lights and banners at the crossroads below my house. The voice was coming from it, over and over again, "Please move to the right."

It was like a church procession, the first vehicle swinging an aural incense orb back and forth, "Please move to the right" "Please move to the right" over and over, rhythmic, sombre...

Appearing over the hill and forming up behind it first were a couple vehicles each with vertical clearance rod affixed, looking reminiscent of the verger bearing a cross on a staff, then a black SUV, perhaps filling the role of an acolyte bearing the Bible, then basket truck no doubt to lift wires and tree-branches so as not to knock the mitre off the head of the bishop himself, a low-boy behind a gleaming tractor bearing the dimensionally oversized load. "Please move to the right." "Please move to the right" ...

All formed up in the nave, the procession recommenced its inexorable march slowly past in a most dignified and august manner, proceeding up our street from the village.
















I resisted the urge to turn to face the alter as it passed, but couldn't resist calling out to the driver of the guard vehicle bringing up the rear. "What is it?" I called. The driver heaved a sigh, smiled weakly, and answered with not a little resignation:



"A problem."