This is not the April I ordered

The hens looked at me, accusingly, when I brought them their morning porridge, with a side order of snowy day. Sometimes being The Great Hen God That Brings All Things is a little wearing. I think they’ve gone back to bed in disgust to see if Mr B can fix the weather.

Mr B is actually somewhere north of London dealing with an MoT. I was going to say that not even his omnipotence stretches this far, but I see that merely typing his blipname has turned the snow to rain.

I don’t normally blip at the start of the day (yes, I know, lately I just don’t really blip at all) so here’s a prediction for the day: cleaning kitchen, sewing pants, framing pictures, filing, invoicing, trouser hemming. The job list should have just read “gardening” but they sent me the wrong April.