On these slightly foggy winter mornings, the light is diffuse and golden and everything is silent (apart from the birds gorging themselves on lard).
The problem with slightly foggy mornings is that although on our slight rise of land we poke above the fog, the roads are all in the thick of it. Of the french words for that sort of weather, I have heard that when you are looking at fog and have no need to be anywhere it is "brume" but when you have to get anywhere it is the less attractive and more cumbersome "brouillard". Perhaps English has the same with mist and fog, but I always just thought of those as being about density, not perspective.
And so it was that the journey to the airport to collect Mr B from his second go at coming home was delayed by fog. Home, work, lunch, work and then Mr B, thoroughly sick of sorting out a knotty and irritating issue at work, decided it was time to build a new terrace structure. Tape measures were duly held, plans were made, and I was persuaded away from a tricky agreement to go to see WoodMan and get the necessary. Discussions continued on the way there and (to my surprise) my musings as to cost and aesthetics were heard and a change of plan was negotiated outside the kiddie prison.
With supplies finally lashed into the trailer, home to unload, do more on the knotty problem (and unfortunately not very much more on the agreement) and then pizza, telly and (for me and CarbBoy) some Friday sofa dozing.