Yet is the post-Covid city exodus now making matters worse, causing friction between those who know who sits where in the pub and the owners of shiny Range Rovers, who push up the house prices and fall foul of local parking customs?

Yes, too much beady-eyed curiosity can feel intrusive. “I live in a village of busybodies,” says Helen, 52, from Yorkshire. “The village WhatsApp pings so often I’ve had to mute it. You can’t do a thing without people having an opinion. Every time we do anything to our house – like paint it – there are complaints to the council. They set up a speed gun post outside our house, and to our eternal shame, they caught my husband going over the limit.”

Helen says that the control extends to naming and shaming those who break the self-imposed rules. “You have to warn everyone before having fireworks, because of the distress it causes to pets – which is fair enough. But one poor woman who wasn’t on the group had fireworks for her daughter’s 18th. If we’d had village stocks, they’d have been put to good use.”

On the other hand, Helen adds, if there’s someone lurking around garden sheds, it’s instantly reported. “There’s a great deal of kindness; if anyone needs a plumber or electrician it’s quickly sorted.”

Oxfordshire-based Claire, 60, says that the power of local busybodies around her has a near Parliamentary feel, but without the controversies. (As most of the heavyweights are retired, they don’t have controversial second jobs.) “Any changes to the village are run past the older generation, who’ve lived here forever,” she says – using the word “elders”. 

“We wanted a change to the speed limit, but were told no, and there’s one man who goes on to properties to check that satellite dishes are in the right place.”

Put a comment on the village Facebook group, Claire says, and you are likely to be shouted down immediately. It’s fair to say that this is common to many village Facebook groups; righteous fury about dog poo, children playing loudly or boy racers can rapidly descend into abuse.

Firm village vigilante Kelly, 46, who lives in Surrey, says she’s proud of what she achieves as a modern-day Miss Marple. “It’s a running joke that I’m a busybody, but I’m proud of it. You need people keeping an eye on things. We live just off the main road, and drivers were using our lane as a cut through. Within a few weeks of living here, I’d seen a cat run over, and I was campaigning – successfully – for speed bumps.”

A year later, a conservation group put up an unsightly sign on a local Victorian bridge. Kelly positioned herself on the bridge every day, asking locals what they thought of the sign. “It looked as though it was made by a toddler, and there had been no public consultation. I contacted the conservation group, rallied the locals, and they moved the sign.”

Most days, she says, there are neighbours to be texted, asking whether they were expecting window cleaners (“it could be anyone up the ladder”) or letting them know if strangers are entering their gardens (“usually lodgers or cleaners, but you never know”).

Sometimes things can seem to go too far. In 2015, a group of locals in Hampshire bought a speed gun and reported an extraordinary 3,500 motorists to police. The village was bitterly divided, with the vicar calling for peace.

As for me, I’d be cheering them on, albeit under my breath. I embrace the Misses – or Mr – Marples of this world. If people have opinions about what colour I paint the garden shed, bring it on. The true busybody has the community’s best interests at heart, and in these uncertain times, that’s something to be welcomed. As soon as the kids leave home, I’ll be buying a clipboard and joining the ranks.