Now here's another thing I don't understand.
There's a fairly fast section of dual carriageway leading to a roundabout on my drive home. Balanced carefully on the central reservation, almost half a mile from the nearest pub, is a pint glass. It's about one-third full of browny-orangey lagerish liquid.
I first noticed it a few weeks ago and now, each time I drive past, I look out for it with growing fascination. How it got where it is now – a location suicidal for careful pedestrians, let alone randomly weaving pub-goers – is a question in itself. But what's got me completely baffled is this: for as long as I've been aware of it, the level of the liquid hasn't changed.
In that time we've had scorching, evaporating heat. And we've had rainstorms that have flooded the roads and brought total chaos. Surely it should have filled and dried out, filled and overflowed, with the colour getting more and more diluted every time? Surely it shouldn't have stayed exactly the same?
What could be happening?
It is these little, unimportant things which drive us mad while the great mysteries of creation go unanswered…