There’s a wonderful story from somewhere out in the world of the naturalist (not naturist, not naturist).

It seems there’s this little river vole type character. An affable little shrew. And every day, Mr Vole travels along the river bank, using a time-honoured route. Same route every day. Never puts a tiny foot wrong. Such comfort in routine. Life for the vole is very good.

Until one day, the Scientists come to visit. They put up their cameras, and they get their measuring tapes out, with the best of intentions. And they Study him, with a capital S. Habits, likes, dislikes, washing, social life: everything there is to know about the vole, these scientists know.

Poor Vole, you say. A new version of paparazzi, just for you. Open your front door, Flashflashflash. This way, Voley, Come on love, I’ve got a deadline to meet and a Grand to collect from the editor of a top naturalist journal.

Well, quite. And it get worse.

Because one day the scientists produce, from their great white coats, a very large boulder.

And they put it right in Mr Vole’s habitual path.

Calamity. Mr Vole wakes up, braves the publicity and sets off on his way down the riverbank at his usual sharpish rate.

And just as he begins to really savour the wind in his fur, the tiny insects whizzing by, the tantalising trickle of the nearby running water – slam. He runs bang smack into the boulder.

Dazed, the little riverside dweller takes some time to correct himself. And then he turns round and goes home again.

We must not forget that this little creature is one of habit. So the next morning, he braves the publicity and sets off on his way down the riverbank at his usual sharpish rate.

Seconds later, Mr Vole is contemplating the little stars which circle his head. And then he picks himself up, turns round and goes home.

This goes on for some days. Had I been there, I would have used my steel toe-capped Doctor Martens to deal a swift blow to the shin of one or two scientists, and taken the boulder away: but I wasn’t there, and the boulder remained.

At which point we must all bow reverently in the direction of Mr C Darwin. Because all of a sudden, the little river vole begins to adapt.

One morning, Mr Vole braves the publicity and sets off on his way down the riverbank at his usual sharpish rate.

And when he reaches the boulder a miracle occurs. He jumps. Really, impossibly high. He soars over the boulder and, for the first time for some days, he’s off down the river bank, speeding away to visit his favourite haunts, and for our little hero routine is restored. Everything is all right once more.

And the scientists go potty. They’re scrabbling for their notebooks and their laptops, the measuring ones who forgot their tape measures are sprinting for the car to retrieve them, all hell doth break loose. This is a big naturalist event. Huge.

But the paparazzi don’t go away. They stay and measure the height and breadth of leap, its effect on washing and social life and diet, until the vole is heartily sick and just wishes they would all go home.

And one day, they do. They get in their flashy cars, talking on their whizzy mobile phones, and go off to write a paper which could win them a big prize. And they take their cameras and their tape measures with them.

And they take away the big boulder.

And all becomes silent and peaceful once more on the river bank.

The next morning, Mr Vole wonders momentarily where all the publicity is, and sets off on his way down the riverbank at his usual sharpish rate.

One straggling scientist waits for a lift nearby. And as he watches, the little vole reaches the point where the boulder was. Yesterday.

As it reaches the boulder point, boulder or no, it soars gracefully into the air. Until the day he dies, that vole will be jumping that non-existent boulder.

Reader, I am he. I could write a long list of the boulders I am still jumping, years after some guy just took them away. Routes I will never take again, meals I will never cook, games I will never play, words I will never say, because once upon a time someone somewhere didn’t like it, and I got used to it not happening.

You?