Wet, wet, wet....

Nothing makes Dimairt happier than diving into the bit of the river which I think of as his "plunge pool". Despite the fact that he is now 11, and that he has arthritis, he still manages to find a stick and drop it at my feet, ready for the throw into the river.

I always have a pang of worry that he is too old for this, but I still can't resist throwing it for him. He'll soon stop when it gets too much for him (I hope).

When I came home, I phoned Jim and found out about his feathered friend; I wonder if the poor pigeon realises what an animal lover he has decided to visit....

I tried to do a bit of gardening, but that wind is so icy - me and my numb fingers gave up.

So, nothing for it but the fireside and a glass of sherry.

It's a hard life.