While I was waiting for a train at Brighton Beach yesterday morning, there was a bulldozer doing its thing nearby. I stood there watching it ferrying loads of dirt from one pile to the other. I was pondering if someone could make a mint of money by setting up a quarry somewhere, and letting blokes discover their masculinity by paying to drive a bulldozer around in the mud for a couple of hours.
The driver paused and shouted out of the window at me: “Do you need any clay at home?”
I laughed. “No”, I replied, “Got plenty.”
He grinned and kept going.
(And it’s true. Andy, who does my gardening for me, reckons there’s some clay in the back garden, giving the grass a hard time.)