POETS

Dad blags a "poets", feeling like he's probably done enough hours this week and claiming that working with man-flu is worth more in hours anyway. Good news for us, as we can have a nice long walk in the melting, sloppy snow. We come back relatively clean, which is more than can be said for Springer LB, who was totally lathered up in slushy mud in the middle of a Rec, from chasing a tennis ball round and round, lobbed great distances by LB's Dad's human daughter.

For our Mum and Dad the prospect of the final weekend when wine may be allowed prior to Lent, which Mum and Dad are going to try and do without a drop taken. Not religious particularly, although Mum claims to be a "collapsed Catholic", but the 6 weeks of Lent is a suitably iconic and testing lump of abstention. Sometimes it works, and they stay the distance, other times they crash and burn. I will keep you up to date.

Other than that, one of those superb free weekends, when no-one is booked to visit us, and we're not booked to go anywhere or do anything. Snow, cold and wet are still preventing Dad getting out on the allotment, so I suspect a weekend of leisurely awakenings and maybe some sporadic garden tidying. Dad, I know, has his eyes on the old horned-poppy seed heads and dead Californian poppy foliage out front, and Mum is thinking she must prune the roses.

Have a good weekend
Deefski