About 100 meters south of where I'm sitting, there are six Roe Deer wandering about, looking miserable. The morning papers talk of McQueen's suicide. And I'm supposed to be interested in Bill Clinton's heart.
It's minus 8C, and my terrace has become like an open aviary. Almost every small bird in the village has heard about my hanging seed feeder and net enclosed grease balls, and they are desperate for their share.
This cold makes me lethargic. If I can get the ice off the car's windscreen, I'll go out. Bloody, bloody winter.
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