For all of you who were still duvet-wrapped at 6 a.m. and woke to a grey, drizzly outlook this morning can I just point out that it was actually not so bad at that time? I was clumping around the countryside at that time with my three dogs (no sleepovers last night), Scarlett, my orange roan Cocker spaniel, Dinah, my Golden Retriever and Finty, my red and white collie.
Weather makes no difference to them. Unless there’s over a foot of powder snow and it impedes their enthusiastic progress I swear they don’t even notice what the heavens throw at them: rain, hail, wind, that big round yellow thing (I forget its name), swarms of locusts, they are as ebullient and energetic as usual.
This is where the ‘previous dog’ in me comes to the fore. I am too. To have three such cheerful, healthy dogs means that I have got to bite the bullet and get out there. Once the initial shock of ping-pong ball size sleet hitting your eyelids passes it’s actually OK. After all there is no such thing as bad weather only inappropriate clothing.
Still in shorts but a sweatshirt has replaced T-shirts now but I’m ever hopeful for an Indian summer. I’m also hoping all that wholesome country air will help my battle scars heal.
Managed 100 lengths in the pool this morning after walkies before a hard weights session. I’ve got to stay fit for all the dog walking. The aches and pains following my impromptu Pope impression appear to have sorted themselves out. No lasting damage, but then I am a hardy quine as my local farmers regularly point out.
Four o’clock in the afternoon and I do believe … yes … yes, the big yellow thing is making a guest appearance. Right, out round the 30 acre field for a mad half hour. Come on girls …