You know that old saying? Red sky at night, shepherd's delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. I'm starting to think that was written about Ethel and Henry. Explosions during the night is pest control. If they're still ongoing by dawn, something's gone seriously wrong.

It was an odd organisation to be part of - even accounting for mythical creatures of folklore - because there wasn't really any structure beyond the hierarchies of the village. Mel was nominally in charge because no one sensible would try and suggest she shouldn't be. Young Charlie was basically in charge of combat training because she was by far the youngest and the fittest. She once told me that growing up in a house of boys was good training for monsters - and they were less gross - and that if she had to suffer through early onset menopause she was damn well going to use it to be able to one up them some more.

Henry was the trap guy. After knowing him fifty years and believing he trapped mice, moles and rats, it's still strange getting used to him arriving with a new batch of pixies to relocate. Ethel was our troublemaker who would probably try to take on an army on her own - and I don't know who I'd bet on in such circumstances -, and I hate to think just how formidable she'd have been if she'd been doing this since Young Charlie's age.

Old Charlie ran intel and interference, mobility issues had stopped him going out on jobs. So he would take up residence at the cafe and ensure he heard anything Mel missed. And if people started asking questions about what any of the members had been up to - Bill once started asking questions about why there was a new hole in his barn after Sid had been investigating the leaky roof - he would distract them until someone had thought up a plausible excuse. Or fix the hole.

Everyone had a theory on why we could see them and whether or not it was an isolated phenomenon. Though everyone also had an opinion on whether or not it mattered or if that was even worth understanding. Especially when Karim had started asking Muriel questions about the type of books she was checking out of the library. He had been worried someone was starting a tourism fad but she had lied and said it was for a book she was writing.

Let that be a lesson in small village gossip networks, do not say you are writing a book if you don't want people to ask you about it's progress for the next ten years or more. Sid pre-ordered a copy - though no one knows how. Fleur promised to let her have a display in the Mug Shot once she'd gone to press.

Let that be another less in small village hierarchies, if you're going to mock the woman who makes the best cakes in the village and who brings them to every event... make sure you know which the safe one is next time.

Especially when she's the only one who knew enough about the creatures to not attack a brownie on sight because she knew that, actually, they're quite friendly little creatures and like their homes to be just as clean as the humans who think they own them. Thanks to Muriel's advice I was able to apologise to the little fellow I'd tried to chase out of my home, so there was only a couple of minor pranks in revenge. After that we both adapted to the fact I could see him now. Now he swats at the neighbours cats with a frying pan when they're going to poop in his garden. Yes, I'm under no illusions, the garden is his. I need to stay away from plants, for their sake. I have the opposite of green fingers.

The earliest days were weirdly both the hardest and easiest. How do you ease someone into the fact that folklore is a lot more real than people realised? It takes time to adjust to suddenly being able to see things you thought impossible for decades. But also it was the time when least was expected, no one expected you to understand or be that much use helping.

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And then suddenly Jimmy rounds you up into a crew for a job and Ethel handing out handheld mirrors to us all.

"What's this for?" I asked, too old to be worried about asking the stupid questions.

"Only way to kill a cockatrice is to make it see itself," Muriel explained. "It's precautionary, we're not sure if it's a wyvern or cockatrice yet."

"Better hope it's a wyvern," Ethel cut in. "If a cockatrice sees you, you're as good as dead. At least a wyvern has to hit you with it's tail to poison you."

"Personally, I prefer to hope we're wrong and it's just a rabid dog," Henry added.

"So... if you were being literal about it killing us by looking at us - regardless of whether we've seen it or not - how do you plan on seeing it first?" I asked, suddenly feeling like my sword - yes, I have a sword now because that's how nuts this all is - wasn't going to offer all that much protection.

"We know roughly where it's hunkered down based on it's destruction, so Henry's gonna lay a load of traps," Muriel explained. "Now, the legends that say cockatrices die if they hear a rooster crow aren't true, but they come from the fact that they're scared of them. Which means we can still use the sound to our advantage."

"Roosters don't crow until dawn."

"We have phones, luv."

I didn't say anything else. Somehow, in amongst all the low tech solutions - the most recent technology on display right now was Jimmy's shotgun - I'd forgotten that new tech wasn't avoided for any particular reason.

But that's how I ended up in a wood, in the middle of the night, with a bunch of others all over the age of fifty - Young Claire couldn't join us - and armed to the teeth. I could only imagine the kind of fast or smooth talking that would be required to explain all that away if anyone had stumbled upon us. Especially Ethel and her battleaxe.

We were lucky, it was a wyvern. Though it didn't feel like it at the time, we were also lucky it was a small one - compared to how big I was told they can get at any rate. It wasn't impressed with the downloaded rooster caw either, but it didn't rush out in a panic like a cockatrice would.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that things don't move as easily or as quickly as they did in my twenties or thirties, but that doesn't mean us oldies can't do anything. We can still move pretty well - or at least most of us - even if we'll pay for it in the morning. Jimmy says that's what the pint waiting for him at the Axe is for.

Henry's traps managed to corral it into what just about counts as a clearing, and Jimmy managed to hit it enough to give it a serious limp. That made a big difference in the ensuing fight. Oh, it still snarled and hissed and slashed at us with abandon, with both claws and tail. Several of us took various blows from it as we tried to get it under some kind of control. We all just about managed to avoid the worst of it's poisonous tail thanks to Muriel's warnings. I took a gash to the arm when it outmanoeuvred my flanking attack, but that just gave Ethel an opening to plough her axe into it's neck so deep it took both her and Jimmy to yank it free again.

"We're getting too old for this," Jimmy said on attempt number two. "Maybe we should retire before the kiddos show us up."

"Speak for yourself," Ethel retorted, as she elbowed him out of her way and gave a sharp kick to the handle which finally freed it. "I'll be in the cold, hard ground long before I let goblins eat my grandson!"

"Ethel, we've never seen a goblin," Muriel added wearily, as if this were a conversation she'd had too many times.

"Yet!" She replied cheerfully, wiping off the thick of the gore on the overgrowth around us.

"Really?" I asked, surprised given all the other stories.

"Nope, it's all local legend stuff. Brownies, imps, selkies - and yes, there is a selkie in the river - and once a troll," Ethel explained.

"And every type of pixie you can imagine," Jimmy added.

"I think this is the second wyvern," Henry added. "We better get digging."

That's the bit they never talk about in the stories. How to clean up after the fight. Even though most people can't see the creatures you can't just leave them out in the open, kids might stumble upon them and no one really wanted to find out how bad they'd smell after a few days. So if they were mostly harmless they got relocated or rehomed, but the ones that had to be put down either got buried or cremated.

Neither was a particularly fun option.

I think that's really what the pint is for.