‘No smoke without fire’, was the thought ringing like tinnitus, as the sound of ‘effing and ‘jeffing emanated from the nearby bushes. I was strolling along an otherwise quiet country lane, in the shadow of Bramber Castle, surrounded by rolling fields, grazing cattle, and the occasional self-entitled cyclist flying past clad in stretched, kink-orientated, black Lycra.

Drawing closer to this disturbance of the natural peace, heated voices were breaking out, in a countryside class war exchange divided by a rickety old fence, between a ruddy-faced female landowner and a potty-mouthed traveller with axes to grind. Having recently moved his caravan into her field, she was getting ready to unleash her rabid corgis, as her partner skulked sheepishly with apologies in the shadows.

Passing by as a neutral observer, with no desire to begin refereeing this slanging match, I was more inclined to pull up a camping chair to see how the conclusion to this X-rated edition of the Archers would pan out, but decided to head for the river instead.

So, down to the river I went, where the easing of the stresses and messes of modern life happens, where the traditional washing, then airing, of dirty linen takes place, and the essential defragging of the system occurs through the force and power of its direct current.