​Eyes on the ground at Glebe End have confirmed the worst this morning: two individuals spotted in full hi-vis, clipboards in hand, tape measure unfurled like a sword of bureaucratic doom. They were Essex Highways, no longer shadows in the hedgerows but fully materialised agents of disruption. We can only assume a new tactic is being drafted, a possible expansion of the closure perimeter, or a fresh scheme involving cones, confusion, and spiritual despair.

​Just after sunrise, the pigeons returned, flapping hard like they’d seen things. Corporal Flappy (a veteran of the great pub menu run) had a tiny scroll tied to his leg. It was damp, slightly singed, and smelled faintly of beef Monster Munch. But what it contained would shake the village to its core.

​It was one of those mornings when sunlight hits your eyeballs like a tax bill. Golden, mocking, and full of empty promises. I was herding the kids to school, past hedgerows twitching with gossip and birdsong so chipper it made you want to slap a robin. Have you ever tried to explain to a six-year-old why they can’t go to school because the roads have declared war on basic civilisation? It’s like trying to justify jazz to a badger.