While conducting "pub lunch operations" in my home village, I espied a film unit. Judging by the horses, mob-caps and frock coats we are about to be immortalised in yet another historical/literary masterpiece. I think it is Tess of the D'Urbevilles, a Hardy perennial... Apart from the mucking around of parking, extra vehicles and gangs of people called Tristan talking about the politics of soap operas, there was a small group of technicians lurking on our war memorial. four or five of them, one with a tab out and another sat on the concrete flower tubs which mark the four corners. To describe them as disrespectful is polite - they didn't seem to even give one. I reached into my inner soul and pulled out a pretty convincing AcSM impression. "That man, smoking on the war memorial!" He jumped about ten foot, looked sheepishly over his shoulder and jerked away from the (actually quite unpleasant) marble centotaph like a galvanised frog. The rest of the gang bomb-burst, one of them showing decency by doing a mime of "Sorry". A senior grown-up turned to remonstrate with whoever had shouted after he had called silence or action or whatever. We exchanged a glance. He pretended he hadn't seen me. BBC? Ha!