True Brit

It's oft said that we British chat about nothing more than the weather. How ridiculous. Frighteningly, a quick read back of some previous bike-related posts reveals that I may be one of them. The Weather Warblers. Rain, rain, rain. Too wet, too wet. Like an effing owl. Too-wet, too-wet, too-wet-ta-whoo. Yet even as my fingers drum upon the keyboard, they're outgunned by the drumming on the window of a thousand raindrops, rendering unnecessary biking pointless. May as well stay in and polish my helmet. Or something. North Yorkshire's roads, on days like these, are a bit like the best Christmas present ever if only batteries had been included. Without them, the thrill is more than muted.

So days are occupied with other things.

1) Gardening. Wet gardening. Eight hours of the past couple of days have been filled by the occupation of Digging Over the Vegetable Garden. Previously considered a job for octogenarians, I now know that it's work for for those wishing to appear like octogenarians. The bent back. The aching limbs. At times more sexton than gardener, I was kept going by a dream of robust carrots and medal-winning runners (beans not Olympians). Jeez, I'm getting old.

2) Horse riding. More aches. More stretching by muscles that I swear aren't natural. There's a theme developing here. Where's my gym card?

3) Lunch. Game. Cheese. Dry, crisp Reisling. Chocolate. Coffee. Gavi.

4) Ideas of literary ambition that feel distinctly non-delusional (maybe this should have been number 3 since they occurred before the white wine).

5) Hmm...I wonder...? (see 4).