Outside it is all mist and murk with the drip, drip, drip of moisture as if Mr Fish is slowly wringing out his boxer shorts. W hat the Borderers call a
smirr. Perfect weather for this month's pestilence- a plague undreamt of by the authors of Exodus. Harvest mites, thunder flies, wheat lice-take your pick. Thick clouds of them eager for every orifice, the more concealed the more to die for and eventually to die in. Gulping up with enormous appetite any quantity of anti-bug lotion and staying for more and then beaming up their cousins the midges to join the fun. And the borders midges are direct descendant's of the Rievers-viscous, unprincipled, opportunist, and out for blood. Yes its Hell out there. And who is going to pick the fruit before it rots on the bushes? It will have to be the wife as she has invested in a bug proof sort of spaceman's helmet with visor which at least protects the more northern orifices. But the equator remains a soft target. These critturs have no respec'.
And not even a Test Match to watch inside.
