Writing on the dirt of a white van this morning: "the rest of the 50 million are in HERE!" (note to all non brits: police across the country are hunting for 53 million pounds stolen from somewhere, the biggest theft ever, they found only a few grand so far) 

An inarticulate pub acquaintenance, willing to buy anyone five drinks if they only spoke to him, unable to communicate verbally, while his gestures were ambiguous to say the least, suddenly proclaims crystal clear "One day I'm gonna get my daddy's croft back. One day. One day." I toasted to that. Saddest thing was he knew he was a sad character.

Snow sprinkled east cost hills, skating ducks on Queens Park pond, among half submerged traffic cones held by the ice. A slalom course for the almost grown cygnets.

That's my bit of poetry for the day. not. Enjoy the rest of the sunshine, the rain will be knocking on our roofs soon again.