Anyway, here we are then on this… well… not quite so splendid morning. Even some of the birds have managed to stir themselves enough to give a half-arsed shriek of indignation at the encroaching dawn before groaning and covering their eyes with a wing for ‘just a couple more minutes’. As a rule, I like the mornings, but why do they have to begin quite so early in the day? This is especially true as autumn fades away and we progress deeper into the wintertime, and the mornings become more and more indistinguishable from the night.
Mornings are good, but dark mornings make you bump into things. This can be pleasantly fortuitous if, by way of example, one of those things you bump into happens to be an early-morning cake shop manageress with her baps still warm from her bread ovens. However, it is much less so if you happen to fall over a Grand Uncle Stagnant still comatose from his last evening’s exertions in The Pervert’s Appendage, smelling like a overflowing brewery and feeling like a sack of mouldering rodent corpses.
Still, though, there is nothing quite as invigorating as a early bright sunny, but sharply frosty, morning for striding manfully (or womanfully) through the frosted waist-high undergrowth in no more than a pair of stout walking books and a simply-equipped perversion-utility belt.