More from the darkest depths of Inner Cheshire (UK) 😃
This damnable canal water seems apt to turn crusty at the slightest provocation.
According to Her Majesty’s Meteorological Office it was a balmy barely zero last night (and how else would I know, snug in my Captain Pugwash onesie?) but it’s still solid enough for mice to ice-skate upon this morning, and they are doing so with abandon in tartan trousers and little red scarves.
The ice looks broken, but it’s really just lightly frozen in lumps, solid right across.
The dawn sky has that curiously unpleasant nicotine-yellow horizon, the one that according to folklore means that several early-morning farm-diddlers are smoking their pipes, just over the horizon. In fact, I can vouch for that, being moored next to what passes for a dairy farm these days, where the moo-cows (what am I, thirteen going on eight?) live indoors and hugely noisy tractors and wotnots move their poo about all
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