Snow and a dogfish Having been about its secret ministry, there was snow this morning. Woke up envisioning a cup of tea with beaded bubbles winking at the brim, and thinking of John Keats. Followed this with a lovely breakfast of smoked salmon, kippers and scrambled eggs. Then I spent some time playing with Paddy the small dog, with a tennis ball which it returned and then did a fair amount of growly stuff as you wrenched it from its mouth, and repeated x 50. Dogs and Peter Kennys have over the years reached an uneasy entente cordiale, but this was rather a nice dog. Amazingly it went for a swim too, after we'd taken a short walk past the local church and along a long hedge up a hill, then down cloying mud tracks towards the valley of the river Avon. Apparently it likes swimming so much it has to be dragged back inland before it drowns of exhaustion. There was one exciting bit when Paddy almost disappeared over the weir, but John reeled him in with the extensible lead. The sun was ...