Meanwhile the sky is ice-blue and the sun beats in through the windows. Outside, the air is still and biting. Then, a whirring of wings and the Battle of Stalingrad begins, as a woodpecker the size of a chicken starts working on the dead silver birch.
And as is the American way, other neighbours come calling.
Waidaminute. Whose front door is this anyway?
Weather like this couldn't possibly last. We are off to take the Volvo 1800 to winter quarters.
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