In which I apologise to Clare Balding. Or, a small cautionary tale.

Yesterday, I found myself in a little Twitter storm which is so illustrative of the perils of the internet that I am going to tell you the whole story.

It does not start well. I fear that I may have hurt the feelings of one of Britain’s most beloved broadcasters. Yes, even I, always banging on about good manners and kindness, may have not lived up to the standards I set myself.

Here is how it happened.

Channel 4 were showing the racing. I tweet a lot when the racing is on, partly out of excitement, partly to deal with big race nerves, and partly because I am still unsettled with the new coverage. Because the adrenaline is running, I type fast, and sometimes press send before I have thought carefully what it is I say.

As I was making my usual complaint that we do not get to see enough of the horses themselves, particularly in the paddock, two other Twitterers joined in. They were not people I know, but they shared my sense of loss for the old Channel 4 team, and soon we were in an orgy of regret for the departure of John Francome and Alistair Down.

One of them objected, in quite personal terms, to the choice of Clare Balding as the new front-woman for the show. I said that I like her as a broadcaster, which is absolutely true, but think that she is a generalist. By this I mean that she has a wide knowledge of all different kinds of sport, and works in a range of different mediums. (On a very personal level, what I crave from Channel 4 is a tight focus on specialist racing knowledge.)

However, in context, the whole Twitter chat came across as an ad hominem objection to Balding herself. I spend days twisting myself up like a pretzel to avoid ad hominem. So I was already started to feel uncomfortable, when Balding herself entered the conversation. I work hard, she said, and try to get people interested in racing.

Oh God, I thought. This is what happens when the internet flies too fast and tempers get heated. It can be forgotten that there are real people out there, with real feelings, who are only doing their jobs. I imagine that anyone in public life gets more slings and arrows than any human deserves, now that the green ink brigade has gone viral.

I was overcome with crushing angst. I sent Balding what I hoped was a polite tweet saying that all I too wanted was for more people to be interested in racing, and emphasised that really what I was crying out for was a view of the horses in the paddock. (This is an editorial decision, and absolutely not her fault.)

And here is the amazing thing. She tweeted back at once, saying that she would mention it, and that it might be possible once they were covering fewer races. I am a complete stranger, howling and yowling out on the prairies of the internet, and yet she took the time and trouble to reply.

How is that for grace?

The problem is that she was so generous and well-mannered that my angst only grew. I was now convinced that I had behaved badly and unfairly. I could not get the thing out of my head. I woke up this morning worrying about it.

So here is my own question for the day. It is: how may one object, without being objectionable?

I love racing with an unbridled passion. I loved the old Channel 4 team, and spent so much time with them that they felt like family. It’s a slightly peculiar thing to say, but it’s true. I loved that Alistair Down could recall every single Cheltenham since he was a boy. I loved that John Francome could tell you that an ordinary horse down the handicap had run a blinder on a wet Wednesday at Wetherby. Francome in particular wore his knowledge so lightly that it was easy to overlook how profound it was.

I am still a bit raw from the sudden change, and in danger of taking it personally. Channel 4 Racing, after all, does not exist just to serve me. Not everyone is a racing geek, and perhaps not everyone does need to know what happened in a mid-week card at Wetherby.

Where Clare Balding is brilliant is in her ability to translate the language of racing for a wider audience. She knows the world inside out, having grown up in it, and she knows the people. She is also an ultimately professional and accomplished broadcaster, who can take anything that a live programme throws at her.

It’s all very well, my yelping like a scalded dog, every time the programme does something I do not like. But this small episode reminded me that there is a danger, in this rushing internet age, of developing a nasty sense of entitlement. It is too easy for me to throw my toys out of the pram, and take to Twitter to shout and scream and set my hair on fire. Perhaps it is not a very edifying thing to do. My new resolution is to think before I tweet. Because, much as I hate to admit it, it really is not all about me.

Clare Balding is far too busy to read an obscure blog like this. But just today, I really wish she were one of the Dear Readers. Because I would like to say sorry. And to thank her for reminding me of a valuable lesson in manners.
 
Today’s pictures:

Too dull and snowy today to take out the camera. So here is a random selection from the last few days:















Autumn the Filly:



Myfanwy the Pony:



Can’t resist the free-schooling pictures:





Red the Mare, living up to her name in the winter sun:





Stanley the Dog enjoying some top ball action:





The hill, from a sunnier day:

Could everyone PLEASE stop shouting?

One of the rules I made when I started this blog was to avoid, if at all possible, ad hominem attacks. This is not just because they are illogical, but also because they are rude. Occasionally, someone in the public eye would drive me so nuts in the head that I could not refrain from a little dig, but even then I tried hard to stick to the rule of criticising the thing a person had said or done, rather than anything to do with their character or their appearance. I imagine if you dug back through the archives you would find times when I did not honour this rule, but it remains my serious aspiration, and the older I get the more I think it is important.

The press has always loved duffing up politicians and celebrities. There is the tall poppy syndrome, when someone once lauded becomes perceived as too swaggery for their shirt and must be cut down to size. There is also the odd phenomenon of herd mind, when every single pundit appears to pick on the same person at the same time.

The bashing of the public figure goes back to Hogarth and beyond, and in many ways has an honourable history. When Richard Nixon told reporters, ‘You won’t have Nixon to kick around any more,’ he did not get much sympathy, and nor did he deserve it. There was a president who possibly needed a bit more kicking around.

But now there is something which does feel new. It is the rise of the internet pundit and the Twitterers with the trigger fingers. Professional journalists aren’t perfect and do make grievous mistakes, but most of them have some sense of responsibility, to their paper, to their readership, even, if one can say this without everyone falling on the floor laughing, to the ethics of their profession. Despite Leveson, I think there is such a thing as the integrity of the press: not all journos are hackers and smearers. If you don’t believe me, read Jon Snow today on the intricacies and nuances and terrors of Syria, for a shining example of journalism at its crest and peak.

There is something about the new media which can turn otherwise perfectly civilised people into screamers and slashers. Some of the things written on the comment sections of even a publication as august as the Telegraph make me blanch and blush.

There are Facebook tantrums and Twitter firestorms and blog eruptions. It is so easy to type fast, as the red mist of rage descends, and press send; the distancing effect of the internet ether can make a civilised human seem to forget they are talking of another sentient human, with friends and family and feelings. This happens not just to the brigade with the pots of green ink; the unshackling power of social media may lead to respectable commentators hurling about insults that they would never commit to print.

The latest row, being reported with glee on the political blogs, blew up when a columnist dashed to her Twitter feed. She read that the Education Secretary had been seen with his daughter in a bookshop. She tweeted: ‘It never occurred to me that this man had had sex.’

The magnifying effect can be seen blatantly. I am certain that this writer would never have included such a remark in her column, in actual newsprint, in a serious broadsheet. There is something about Twitter which lets slip the dogs of war.

My main question is one of genuine enquiry: why would anyone say such a thing? As a general rule, I think it wise not write anything about a person that you are not willing to say to their face. For added validation: you might imagine their mother reading it. Hate a politician’s policies; argue their positions until your ears fall off; oppose their ideas with every ideological bone in your body; but don’t resort to playground taunts. Apart from anything else, it’s a bit like Godwin’s Law: first one to mention the Nazis has lost the argument. If you must go straight to fat or ugly or stupid jokes, the suspicion is that your intellectual cupboard is bare, even though the opposite might be true. It looks desperate and paltry, so that when you do say something serious people are less likely to listen.

It is also unkind. You will wound all those who love that person. You are not winning an argument; you are unleashing untrammelled meanness.

But the real problem with this kind of attack is that it has no utility. (Regular readers will know I am huge for utility.) The Education Secretary is highly unlikely to think: goodness, a person on Twitter thinks I am too hideous or unspeakable or otherwise vile to have had congress, therefore I must rethink my position on free schools at once.

No policy will be changed; no mind converted. All this kind of low barb achieves is an addition to the sum of human unhappiness.

I know all this sounds a bit joyless and po-faced. So much more fun to slash and burn rather than be reasoned and measured. Some people might even think it bloodless and mealy-mouthed. Self-censorship, they cry, their righteous flags of freedom of expression fluttering in the wind. But I stick with my mother, who advised me from a very young age to endeavour not to make personal remarks.

Private Eye, that most gleeful pricker of balloons, manages to have festivals of satirical fun without going for the straight mean. It will tease and mock; it is fierce in exposing acts of hypocrisy; it will squeeze the pompous and the foolish until the pips squeak. But it is much too clever to go for a low procreation slur. It wins arguments and casts light into shady corners precisely because it dances right up to the edge of the sharpest satire and the most antic lampoon, but rarely descends to pointless cruelty.

The unfenced prairies of the internet seem to invite odd levels of intemperance. Inhibitions are cast aside, consequences forgotten, lesser angels come out to dance.  The problem is, once you are shouting madly like a saloon drunk, you convince no one of the brilliance of your insights, the rightness of your prescriptions, or the goodness of your heart. You are just shouting.

 

After all that seriousness, today’s pictures feature a lot of soothing moss:

Red’s View:

Red the Mare:

(We had a lovely ride this morning, in the first of the serious autumn frosts, going easily in just a rope halter under the dazzling sun.)

Pigeon with her never-fails yearny face on:

Hill with sheep:

Of course there must be a PS. As my finger hovers over the publish button, I feel the caveats coming on. Whenever I write something like this I am left with about eight-seven huge buts, or on the other hands, or but perhaps I should have looked it at this ways. Nervously, I edge onto the safety of the middle ground, which is why I would be useless as a columnist. The good columnist will wave big fat red flags; I rush around taking mine down in case they are too scarlet and wavy.

My angst here is that in arguing against ad hominem, I have almost committed it. I am so pathetic that I even removed the name of the Twitter person, because in some ways my argument is not a personal one with her. It is the phenomenon of injudicious insult that I regret.

At one point, I almost chucked the whole thing and did a nice horse post instead. But sod that for a game of soldiers. I know it’s insanely old-fashioned, and there are people who shall mock and sneer, but I really do believe that a little good manners costs nothing. I stand by my argument, even if I have not phrased it as elegantly and pithily as I would have liked.

People are people. Even those who seem the most robust may have fragile hearts. Attention should be paid.

Oh, and one more idiot PS:

I love Twitter. It’s because I do love it that I grow restive when the shouting starts. It is a tremendous medium in so many ways, and I wish, romantically, unrealistically, perhaps naively, that everyone would use its power for good instead of ill.

And now I really, really am stopping.

A tale of two worlds. Or, a story of racing and rudeness, of the triumphant and the taciturn. Or, mighty dynasty, nil; Shirley Teasdale, one.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I like almost nothing more than an illustrative vignette, and it turns out I have one for you. It’s quite a long story, so you might like to get a nice cup of tea.

Yesterday was the Eclipse at Sandown. The Eclipse is one of the most storied races in turf history. It was founded in 1886, as Britain’s richest ever race, with a prize of £10,000 donated by Leopold de Rothschild. It was named after one of the greatest racehorses that ever lived, the mighty Eclipse himself.

Eclipse was an extraordinary horse. He was foaled in 1764 during a solar eclipse, hence his name, and he was never defeated. He had to be retired because no one would take him on any more. When he went to stud, he produced a rattling roll of honour of great classics winners.

His own pedigree is equally stellar: he had the Godolphin Arabian on his sire’s side, and the Darley Arabian (my own mare’s ancestor) on his dam’s side. This means he is descended from two of the three founding sires of the entire thoroughbred breed. Almost every horse racing today can trace its bloodlines back to him.

This year, the race was very exciting. It was packed with quality horses, who had won races all over the world, from Italy to Dubai. The favourite was the progressive Farhh who was a fast-finishing third after getting boxed in at Ascot. The question mark in the race was the lovely big colt Nathaniel, who has class and stamina in abundance, but had been off the track since October. He had been seriously ill with mucus on his chest, and his preparation had been seriously affected.

His trainer, the thoughtful and brilliant John Gosden, had given some very downbeat interviews, talking about how difficult it had been to get the horse right again, and warning the betting public, very correctly, that he was not quite sure his horse was completely match-fit.

It’s very hard to get a horse tuned up for a big race without a run first. You often hear in racing the expression ‘he needed the race’. There is only so much you can do on the gallops at home. Often, these mysterious, sparkling creatures need the heat of battle to bring them to their best. The catch-22 is that often you can’t quite tell how near their best they are without running them.

Nathaniel went off in front. They all came at him; the Italian raider, the Dubai winner, and one by one he fought them off. Then, out of the pack, on the wide outside, came the blue colours of Farhh, with Frankie Dettori crouched over his neck, finishing like a train.

This was where the fractured training preparation would show; fitness and strength would be tested to the limit. Some horses would fold like a house of cards under a challenge like that, after a mile and quarter in front on testing ground. Not Nathaniel. He stuck his big, bonny head out a little further, and kept on galloping. He had a look in his eye which said: none of you buggers is getting past me today.

You couldn’t really call Nathaniel an underdog. He is a top class horse from a top class yard under a top class jockey. He holds the distinction of being the horse who has finished closest to the imperious Frankel, getting to within half a length of him when they were two-year-olds. But because of him having been sick, because it was first time out, because there were whispers of poor performances on the gallops, because of the doubts of Mr Gosden, he felt like the underdog. It made the victory a very sweet one indeed; he won that race on talent, but he won it also on heart and guts.

So, all was joy. Commentators were throwing about words like brave and brilliant. Everyone was delighted with the remarkable training performance from John Gosden and the stellar ride from William Buick, who was grinning all over his young face. Into this cauldron of happiness went Mike Cattermole, with his Channel Four microphone. He politely approached Lady Rothschild, the owner, and congratulated her, and remarked on the astounding fact that this was her seventh winner in two weeks. (She had just won the Lancashire Oaks with one of the nicest three-year-old fillies I’ve seen in ages.)

‘So they tell me,’ she said, rather oddly. I wondered what this could mean. Who were this mysterious They? Did she delegate minions to watch the races for her?

And then she ran away.

I’ve never seen anyone do that after a race. She actually scuttled away from poor Mr Cattermole, who was left on live television with no one to interview. Someone must have said in his ear that the gentleman standing in front of him was Nathaniel Rothschild, the son of the owner, after whom the horse was named.

In tones of joyous relief Cattermole said: ‘So you are Nathaniel!’

‘Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild.

Cattermole at this stage was clearly going into some kind of cosmic broadcasting nightmare.

‘Nathaniel is nicer?’ he said, hopefully, hopelessly.

‘We like Nat,’ said Nat Rothschild. A woman standing next to him giggled, as if this were a great joke.

Mike Cattermole made a doomed attempt to get him to say something, anything, about the horse, the race, the occasion. Nothing. There was an indecipherable mutter, and then silence. Eventually some sort of spokesman stepped forward and made some anodyne remarks, and poor Mr Cattermole must have been led away and fed valium and brandy.

I try not to do ad hominem, because I am thin-skinned enough, and I don’t like bitching people up when I can’t take it myself. But occasionally I am driven to it.

That little scene was one of the most peculiar, ungracious, downright rude things I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. Nathaniel Rothschild had just led his winner in, punching the air in triumph, as if he had ridden the horse himself. Would it have killed him to have said something nice to the good people at Channel Four? Could he not have paid tribute to the patience and cleverness and hard work of John Gosden? Could he not have mentioned that it takes a team of dedicated people to get a horse like that to win such a race?

If it had been me, I would have thanked the vet and the farrier and the head lad and the travelling head lad and the damn postman. I would have pointed out that the horse would not have been there without the devoted care of the person who looks after him every day, and the person who gets up at the crack of dawn to ride work, in rain and shine.

I would have hymned to the skies the determination and skill and strength of the young jockey, who timed his fractions to perfection, and got every last ounce of stamina and speed out of his horse. I would have sung a song of the horse himself, of his genuine character, his courage, his marvellous will to win. I might have had to be dragged away before I started on a paean to the long line of champions from whom he was descended. I would have been speaking of the Darley Arabian as some desperate producer shouted: ‘Cut to advertisements.’

I don’t know about the Rothschilds. Perhaps they were having a really awful day. Perhaps their dog just died or something. But what I don’t understand is that it is so much easier to be nice. Grace and manners not only add increments to the sum total of human happiness, but they are much easier to do than taciturn sullenness. It was a most inexplicable lack of sophistication or charm.

At the other end of the scale, Shirley Teasdale, the young apprentice I wrote of the other day, took the time to leave an incredibly polite and charming message on the blog. Teasdale, unless her family secretly owns Yorkshire, does not have Rothschild millions, but she could teach them a lesson in manners. Apparently, reading what I wrote about her made her mum very happy. This is one of the good miracles of the internet. I am almost more delighted by the fact that I have made Shirley Teasdale’s mum smile than by anything else that has happened this year.

Radio programmes often have regular contributors; this is a friend of the show, the host will say. I am going to make Shirley Teasdale a friend of the blog. I’m so impressed with her that I’m going to follow her through her season and report back.

I told my own mother about Shirley Teasdale today. She was enchanted by the whole story. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’d take a bet on her being the first woman to win the Derby. I might ring up William Hill and ask if they are making a book on that.’

My mother fingered her iPad, on which her own William Hill account was showing. She was considering having a little punt on Andy Murray in the tennis. ‘It’s called the patriotic bet,’ she said. ‘7-2 to win the first set and then the match.’ But I could see her wondering if she might not be better off betting on Shirley.

 

Pictures of the day:

It’s been a rainy old two days, so Red and I have not been riding. Back to groundwork: circus tricks yesterday; moochy old donkey today. She was so sweet and biddable this morning that I only worked with her for twenty minutes and then just spent the next twenty rhythmically rubbing her neck, which is the consistently of velvet after the rain. I know I have my theory about not babying a horse, but that does not mean Red does not get the love. She adores the neck rub so much she goes into a hazy trance of pleasure.

Here she is this morning:

Later, the Pigeon and I played ball. Are you going to throw the damn thing?:

YES YOU ARE:

Hill, under a flat white sky:

So much for flaming July.

A small good news story about The Young People

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Tired today. Insomnia last night, which always leaves me feeling like an idiot. So this post may not make much sense.

To take my mind off the sordid details of the Barclays scandal, I had a quick peek at the afternoon’s racing. I had a little bet on a very nice sort called The Ducking Stool, and she duly romped home in the sunshine at Yarmouth. (It was the merest coincidence that she happened to be a bonny chestnut mare, not a million miles away from my very own Red.)

She was ridden by a young apprentice I had not taken in before called Shirley Teasdale. She sent the mare off in front, which was obviously where she liked to be; she was bowling along with his ears pricked. The thing about front-running is that you have to time it exactly right, and know the horse, and what it is capable of, otherwise you run out of petrol and get caught close home.

Teasdale not only timed her run to perfection, but when The Ducking Stool was tiring a little towards the end, and another horse was coming at them, she did not panic. Many young riders would. Teasdale did not start flapping about or scrubbing away; she stayed beautifully collected and kept the horse balanced. This is incredibly important, because otherwise they can break stride and lose momentum.

Dear Ducking Stool turned out to be a game and genuine mare, and, with her excellent rider keeping her straight and up to her work, she flashed past the post half a length in front.

It was a very happy thing to watch. It’s lovely to see a young apprentice doing something so well, and especially a female one. Racing is still very much a man’s business. I was so impressed, I sent her a little tweet, congratulating her on her cracking ride.

Just now, I got a reply. It was thanks to the very gutsy horse, she said. I went and looked at her timeline. A few people had also sent congratulations. Teasdale had not only replied politely to them all, but she gave credit to everyone but herself - the trainer, the team, the horse.

I tell this little story not so much because it is about horses, but because it is a good news story about The Young People. One of the things that makes me cross is the bashing of The Young People. They are often portrayed in the media as a bunch of internet-addicted, illiterate, workshy disappointments, not like the excellent young people of an imaginary golden age which exists only in the heads of the sentimental and nostalgic, the kind of people who start sentences with ‘in my day’.

Here is a young person who not only works very hard in a difficult job which pays very little and is exceptionally hard to break into if you are a female, but is very skilled at it, and tremendously polite to boot. I hope that Mrs Teasdale could watch her daughter’s triumph today. She must have been very proud.

 

I found the most enchanting picture of the dear Ducking Stool on the blog of her trainer, Julia Feilden. I hope she does not mind me using it. Since this blog is the spiritual home of the chestnut mare, it feels appropriate:

And here is Shirley Teasdale, who is going straight onto my one to follow list, along with William Buick and Richard Hughes:

See how neat and balanced she is. Really impressive.

 

Just time for my own little champions:

The hill:

The mystery of where the groove comes from, and other life lessons

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Another mammoth working day; 1137 words of book. I have been out of the groove lately, doing far too much research, which is of course part of the job, but can become a shield to hide behind when the writing is not going well. I got into a terrible trough of typing three hundred words, realising they were perfectly awful, deleting them, writing three hundred more, and trashing those too. Non-writers may wonder how it can take two years to write one little book; this is why.

I get into cycles of marvellousness. The ideas rain down like hailstones, and I only have to catch them. My fingers race along the keyboard, as if someone has inserted a superhuman typing chip in my brain. It will always be like this, I start to think. I begin to know how Kerouac wrote On the Road in three weeks. Then, just as my hubris fires me up into the stratosphere, I smash back down to earth. I refuse ever to admit that I get block; that is a word I will not countenance. But the feeling is like driving very fast into an immovable brick wall. Everything stops. I am beset by demons; the fear genie flies out of the woods and settles on my shoulder, cackling into my ear.

I start setting myself impossible targets, which only makes everything worse. Tomorrow, I tell myself, I shall bash through the log-jam by writing three thousand words; that will make up for the fallow time. The next day I get up, and find my mind blank. I cudgel and pummel it, but all it will produce is paltry nothingness. This is when the spiral of shame hits. I am supposed to be a professional; I may not admit any of this. I actually teach writing, after all. I have read all the primers; I have been doing this for more years than I dare count; by now I must be a finely tuned machine. If I admit that the days of uselessness are piling up into weeks, then people will shriek and point, and I shall be unmasked as a fraud. I will never work in this town again.

I have a stupid terror of admitting to weakness. This is entirely idiotic and counter-intuitive, since I sincerely believe that it is our human flaws that make us lovable. Shiny impervious perfection just makes people bounce off you; it is a force field that repels rather than invites. No one wants to spend any time with someone who is invincible; it's the dullest thing in the world. In theory, I celebrate flakiness and goofiness and absurdity. It is what I like in other people; it is what makes them interesting. But when it comes to myself, I sometimes forget all this, and instead wield a stupid stick of self-recrimination, hitting myself over the head in an orgy of remonstration.

Yesterday, for no apparent reason, I got my groove back. Today, I wrote and wrote, and some of the words were even half-decent ones. That is why I can tell you all about my days of shame. It is why I can welcome myself back to the human race, where people are imperfect, and cannot produce glorious, shining sentences every damn day.

 

In other news, my mother calls. It turns out she is as thrilled by England's glorious victory in the second Ashes test as I am. She is impressed by the players' athletic skills, but much more delighted by their good manners.

'They are all so polite, those boys,' she says.

It is true. In interviews, even after smashing records, and producing double hundreds, and taking three wickets in a row, they are all courteous, self-deprecating, quick to give credit to anyone but themselves, and prone to making little jokes, mostly about their own foibles. Interestingly, they all mention the word 'work' a lot. We worked hard, they say; there's a lot of work still to do; the lads really worked on that. They must have all started off with a great deal of natural talent; one of his old teachers said of Alistair Cook said that even when very young he could see the ball quicker than anyone else. With this emphasis on work, it is as if they are saying: it's all very well being born with a bit of flair, but if you do not labour and practice and concentrate, you will just fritter it away. I think: yes, yes, that is a lesson for life, right there, from a slightly unexpected source.

'They must all have marvellous mothers,' says my mum, who thinks about the mothers a lot. 'They are so well brought up.'

'Here's to the mothers,' I say, 'and all who sail in them.'

And here is to my mother, who insists on believing that I am wonderful and brilliant, even on the days when I am convinced that I cannot write my way out of a paper bag. This partial notion is of course empirically incorrect, but I love that she doggedly goes on thinking it.

Talking of things that go on doggedly loving one, no matter what:

And your now traditional snow pictures -

The burn:

The beloved trees:

The view from my garden, looking south through the Scots pines:

East, to the wellingtonias:

And south again:

The silver birches look almost like something from the deep south, with their Tennessee Williams hanging branches:

This is a young horse chestnut, bravely defying the weather:

I love the faint flashes of colour from the old leaves, still hanging on, and the merest glimpse of the blue hill behind:

I find the pattern that the black branches make against the snow oddly fascinating; this makes me think of an abstract painting:

I am unable to resist two more shots of the ladyships, in all their unvarying beauty:

It is minus ten here today. Heavenly stepfather says his thermometer reads a balmy minus nine; mine insists on minus ten. 'Must be a frost pocket,' he says. But we do not complain, as we contemplate the horror of the poor people who were stuck on the M80 yesterday for TWELVE HOURS. I get to stay inside, with four jumpers on, and a good heater, listening to a talented gentleman singing Every valley must be exalted, which is what I am doing now, and I do not take that for granted. I hope you are warm, wherever you are.