Some people document their lives with collections of snapshots, carefully arranged into montage/collage type things, or slotted into multiple-picture frames.

Being no use with a camera, I have to rely instead on a collection of mental images; if I was going to make one up from the past week, both in and out of Trowbridge. It would have to feature:

* The complete and total darkness experienced at night in a village which does not just switch off its streetlights, but does not appear to even possess them.

* The little girl, immaculate in her gingham school dress, complete with school baseball cap to protect her from the sun, walking to school hand-in-hand with a very large chap, wearing only shorts due to the early morning heat and displaying an impressive collection of tattoos.

* The dripping wet springer spaniel, every muscle aquiver, pausing for an instant atop a sea wall as something bobbing in the surf caught his attention.

* The vivid glowing blue, red and lime green slush mountains, topped with snowy pyramids of ice-cream, clutched with delight by three youngsters in Trowbridge park.

* The tiny crabs in a clear plastic bucket fished patiently by youngsters out of a Dorset harbour – and the empty beer can someone had dropped in next to them (I know we’re supposed to Keep Britain Tidy, but surely they could have used a bin?) l The delicious scent of strawberries wafting out of one shop in Trowbridge town centre, matched by the equally luscious smell of fresh bread and hot pasties from the shop opposite.

* The single, almost miniature, albeit warm, scone served up in a teashop and the expression on the face of a man sadly disappointed in his extortionately priced promised treat.

* The overheard announcement by a foreign visitor (possibly Dutch) that, having inspected the room he had booked on the internet, his wife felt it was too narrow and they would not now be staying there.