I am in the middle of Wales, trying to stop shivering for long enough to tell you all about the Queen, some chairs and a clarinet.
I am also wet, from having just ventured outside in a rainstorm of biblical proportions to check on new guttering and old ladies – all of whom are fine – and am, as we speak, just beginning to get ever-so-slightly worried about the wind that is battering the floor-to-ceiling window besides which I am sitting.
And so, not being insane, I am going to go downstairs now and sit by the roaring fire that is heating up everything within two feet of it.
I will write this week’s blog when I get back to tropical, balmy, sun-kissed England. Or, failing that, tomorrow.
Until then, I hope that those of you in the sunshine will take a moment or two to contemplate the fact that ultraviolet rays are very bad for you, whereas rain is good for the skin. So, if you would like to change places for awhile, I will, out of the goodness of my heart, consider it.
Not Leo Tolstoy (aka Eileen Riley)