Climatic

The migrating mould has broken all previous records, arriving earlier than ever before and bursting out with vigour in the bathroom where it has forced the grout into ignominous retreat and now delights the entire family with its glorious black moistness as it consolidates its territory round the edge of the bath.

The wall down the side has awoken from its winter hiberation and is moving again, possibly to a more desirable area where property prices are stable. As it sheds its dowdy old bricks, no doubt in the fervent but utterly misguided belief that, thanks to bountiful Mother Nature, new ones will soon grow back, we can only admire its willpower as the garden gate is gradually shaken clear of its frame.

The neighbours, too, are stirring. They aren't usually seen until after dusk, darkness providing cover for their characteristic behaviour - deliveries of anonymous hate mail and cries of, "Who did threw that brick? I'll get you, you little b****** if I see you again."

It's a wonderful world. Let us rejoice in it, using the repertoire of quaint old four letter words that Thomas Hardy so strangely omitted in his classic works. Sometimes I feel that here, strangely, I am closer to nature that he ever was.

I love you all.