It hasn’t gotten much over freezing all day.
The neolithic burial mound on top of Gop Hill is dusted with snow and stands out in relief against the blue sky.
On and around it are the black spots that are the village children and their squeals of delight as they snowball and sledge can be heard down at the cottage, where I have lit the stove early.
Trendy Carol tottered past on the ice wearing a smart faux fur number
I dozed in the armchair after an icy walk.
But I didn’t dream of Mr Hemingway again,
Which was a shame .