Somebody has buried something in Brighton and forgotten where.
It must be very valuable because, over the past year, every road in the city has been dug up, not once, not twice, but three, four or even five times. I do not exaggerate.
The road opposite where I live, Preston Street, is typical.
First they dug a trench the whole length of the street. But they didn't find whatever it is they are looking for. So a few weeks later, they returned to dig holes at regular intervals.
They still didn't find it but did feel they were getting warmer.
They returned to dig another hole at the top of the street, at the junction with Western Road. They were so sure it was there they dug right across Western Road.
Oh! the disappointment on their grimy faces when their efforts ended in failure. But they were absolutely convinced it must be there somewhere because they came back a month later and tried again.
Still no luck.
"Give up," I said. "You'll never find it."
"You might be right," they said.
I underestimated their persistence. They are back again and digging a bigger, better, deeper hole in exactly the same place.
I love the sound of a pneumatic drill first thing in the morning. It saves me setting my alarm.