On my very long and very dull drive today on work-related matters (I won't bore you with the details), I saw the best place name ever -- Ansty Cowfold. When I looked it up on Multimap, I found out -- disappointingly -- that it's actually two villages which just happen to share the same road sign. Still, never one to let the facts get in the way of a good story, I have decided that if I ever write a novel (like that's ever going to happen), the main character will be called Ansty Cowfold.

Ansty is a rough-hewn straight-talking man, who -- in a bid to avoid nominative determinism -- takes up accountancy instead of a life as a man of the soil. But somehow he feels empty. In the wee hours of the morning when he lies sleepless, gazing at his tie draped over the Corby trouser press, he listens to Farming Today on the radio, and longs to be looking instead at a prize herd of Herefordshire heifers, grazing placidly in the dawn mist. Instead, he sighs, puts on his grey pinstripe suit and prepares himself for another day of compound interest rates and deductible expenses.