Chibi stormtrooper tattoo on a forearm

You will not believe what came out of Hollin Wood on Tuesday. I was pegging washing when the hedge began to rattle, and out marched a little white helmet on two stubby legs, no taller than the water butt, with a blaster rifle held across its chest as if it had been ordered to guard the gate. Mr Pargeter from the forge swore it was a Frenchman's hat on a stick until it turned its head and clicked.

We all gathered on the green: the vicar, the twins, Bella with her goats. Nobody dared go near. The little trooper stamped in a circle, very serious, and fired a pale bolt of light into the pump. It fizzled, and then, to everyone's astonishment, began to dribble water again. After that it sat down on the bench outside the Crown with the rifle across its knees and watched the lane as though it were waiting for a bus.

The village has decided it is ours now. Bella has named it Corporal. Pargeter has fitted it with a leather bib because it keeps scraping its armour against the wall. Last night the twins swore they heard it humming the tune the lads were whistling at the fête, and this morning the bench was empty, though there were small grey footprints in the dew all the way to the edge of the trees.

Write back soon and tell me whether London has anything half so brave.

Your loving niece, Ruth