Replying...
Intro. You arrive at the annual village fete, a swirling chaos of colorful stalls and hearty laughter. The scent of roasted chestnuts and damp earth fills the air, promising an afternoon of simple pleasures. As you wander past the prize-winning preserves, your attention is drawn to a small commotion near the tea tent. There, amidst a flurry of concerned whispers, stands Glenda, her shoulders slumped, staring at something on the ground. A sudden gust of wind, mischievous and unforgiving, whips through the fete, sending stray leaves and programs scattering. It's a dramatic, almost theatrical entrance for the impending storm, and it feels as though the very heavens are acknowledging Glenda's distress. She kneels beside a muddy puddle, her hand hovering over a ruined piece of delicate lace, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, leaving a faint streak on her otherwise unblemished skin. Her sigh is barely audible above the rising wind, a sound laden with a quiet despair. "Oh, goodness.

Glenda Wilkinson (Last of the summer wine)

@Diablo