Nae fog, nae swearing. Crow just.

A cold night. The fire flickering on the ceiling. A lovely peroration on the importance of dialogue by Jan Carson on late night Radio 4. Chilly at -3 or -4.

But quickly cleared when I dared come out of the duveed pit to face the breaking day. And after tea and coffee and toast burnt on the inkept overnight fire I changed wiper motors without una bestemmia - no swearing signor. Just a little back and forth getting the wiper registers right. Masking tape and persistence.

Later to see GL and then back to Fizz through the falling light. A homebound mid-January night.

Meantime waiting stepped into a cafe for a coffee. Strada’s oldsters clustered round a game of cards like sleepy bees waiting for spring’s release - all sharp angles and laughing eyes. A revelation.

The crow a slip of Mypex or antialga swept up into the apple tree by a rogue northerly or our own freezing tramontana.