It has been a glorious autumn day - warm, light breeze, fluffy white clouds, welkin as blue as your eyes, and I've been standing in my garden pond for most of it. No, no photographs, it would be too humiliating.
Why, I hear you ask as you begin to wonder if there's anything on television that could tear you away from this blog, why has the Old Scrote been standing in his garden pond? Not only standing in it, dressed in greeen boiler suit and black wellingtons, but bending down and ferreting with his hands under the water. Looking for stones.
You see, mes chers potes, there used to be beautiful mango-shaped boulders around the edge of the pond, and in the chute of the waterfall (to make the cascade more interesting).
And now there are none. They are all in the pond. I am not one to point the accusing finger, but if I ever get to New Zealand, certain young persons had better watch out. In fact, the pond had become so eutrophic that it was effectively dead, so I was already in the process of cleaning it out when the Case of the Missing Boulders arose.
Tomorrow, if the Lord spares me - and the way I smell at the moment, I doubt if He wants me anywhere near Him just now - I will be back there trying to empty the pond of its oily black mud so that I can start afresh in the New Year.
It's good to have a plan.