It was a beautiful day for our summer fete. There was no other way to describe it other than 'heavenly'. All of the tents and the various stalls just shone beneath the high June sun. I remember, the sight of amassed jars of home-made jam drew you in, even if you didn't particularly like jam.

And so I simply drifted among the funny scarecrows, the face-painted childeren, the toffee-apple chewing farmer's daughters. Sandals, beige shorts, neck-tied jumper and panama hat: the most comfortable combination of clothes I'd ever worn. For the longest time, I spoke with the guest of honour, TV science legend Johnny Ball. His daughter Zoe was unable to attend and -- though he could never have openly admitted it, least of all to himself -- you could tell he felt liberated. Having already opened the fete, he had no particular duties other than to fire off some high-altitude rockets which had been made by local school children. Plus, of course, his most important duty of all -- to thoroughly enjoy himself drinking our sublime Somerset cider, and all this to the Vicar regaling us all with Rogers and Hammerstein on the Mayor's piano, which had been carefully manoevred out onto the village green.

The most important part of the day --it's a cliche of summer fetes, but let's not pretend it's not true!-- was the judging of the prize marrows. Perhaps it's not surprising that a row had broken out. Both of the judges were feudal land owners, but one argued that the size of a marrow must always be aspirational in nature, the other maintained that one should be happy simply with the ability to grow marrows in the first place. 

Everyone laughed at this good-natured rivalry. 

Everyone laughed except the local geography teacher. He looked increasingly haunted, eyes dark and mesmerised in a way no one could quite explain. What's more, he was muttering under his breath. Things like, _'I am a geography teacher and I work bloody hard. People should listen to me'._

Finally, his apparent nervous breakdown culminated in an act of unspeakable horror.

He marched to the nearby field where the school children had arrayed their high-altitude rockets on their tiny launchpads. He laid his head across the biggest projectile and, pulling the trigger, shouted, "I AM THE MIDDLE WAY!"

His head exploded instantly. The resulting wave of blood had a strange colour and consistency, though. It was like custard, but a very unappetizing custard, off-yellow like something sick and radioactive. And as his soul screamed from his body, it looked like a strange, abstract crow, made up of just nine black pieces. The creature swooped low above our heads, traumatising the elderly, knocking off the Mayor's wife's fascinater. A farmer tried to bring it down with his shotgun, but the demonic creature simply glided away through the suddenly dark atmosphere, worryingly bound for of London.

It was a day no one from our small village will ever forget, least of all the nine year old boy whose rocket had been used to unleash the creature that would one day destroy England forever. And who would get a first prize ribbon from Johnny Ball.