The boundaries of my little world have been collapsing lately.

This is not a sad metaphor for the gentle and inevitable unravelling that comes with age, infirmity and increasing irascibility. It is a simple observation of fact.

For in the winds of last winter, the posts holding up the fence between Susie and me and our neighbour Sharon were broken, and the fence has since lived a shadow life, held up merely as a kindness by Sharon’s shed, waving like a sheet on the washing line in the slightest breeze.

Meanwhile, at the bottom of the garden, the wall separating us from our other neighbour, Alec, had been gradually leaning in on us for some time until it was being held up only by three big troughs of bamboo, and its only possible fate was a controlled demolition.

I use the word ‘controlled’ advisedly.

Men came. Men swore.

The wall fell down.

This series of unfortunate events might describe a world with which we are all currently disagreeably familiar.

Sudden, destructive winds, underlying subsidence and eventual, inevitable collapse.

You get the picture. And now it really is a miserable metaphor so early on a Friday morning.

If you ever look at the Bible, you’ll find that the long story of God’s relationship with people is about almost nothing but rebuilding.

It’s a litany of walls mended, cities renewed, and people restored, in partnership with one another and with God.

And so it has been with our boundaries.

Encouraged by Susie, enabled by Sharon, and armed with a sledgehammer and a vague sense of possibility, I’ve put in new posts to stabilise our fence against the autumn tempests.

Meanwhile, bottom-of-the-garden-Alec, with astounding persistence has managed to mobilise an extremely recalcitrant landlord not only to do away with the collapsed wall but also to put up a new fence in its place.

Now, to be honest, with our boundaries, we did not have the technology and we did not have the capability. But we did rebuild them.

Because, in the end, we were determined.  But more importantly we were not alone.

And that, I reckon, is key, whether you’re looking at a depressing metaphor for our shared, national life or actually trying to stop an actual wall falling down.

We have determination.  We have each other.  So we have hope.

Listen to this Pause on BBC Sounds

At the top is the fence surrounding the former school at Bosler in Albany County WY.