Be the rhubarb. Stay in the shed.

East Ardsley's in the Rhubarb Triangle, where they grow the stuff in dark sheds. Lucky rhubarb. Everyone else is sat on Bradford Road breathing it in. The nitrogen dioxide's nearly half as much again as the typical town's, and when the motorway shuts the lot comes through the village.

The new houses come with nothing to go with them, and New Lane's all potholes and parked cars. Somebody keeps setting fire to the grass at about four times the typical town's rate, and the fly-tipping's worse than most. There's 11 pubs. That's the shed most people hide in.

The editor, who'd rather have stayed in the rhubarb shed