Feb 11th

There are many views on global warming. The basic attitudes are that it is not happening, so carry on as before and don't worry too much about the scaremongers. At the other end of the scale are the beards and wooly jumpers who predict catasrophe just around the corner, but reckon if we all start eating lentils and persuading our cars to quietly biodegrade, we might still be in time to save the planet. The most popuar view is yes, we have probably fucked it all up, but no, bollocks I am not stopping using my car, motorbike, lawnmower, dishwasher, washing machine, fridge, freezer, fridge freezer, 800"plasma screen tv, laptop, pc, mobile phone which I change every three months, dvd player, ipod, ypod, whatever letter comes next pod, cos even if I did the Chinese are knocking out steel smelting works quicker than sweet and sour pork balls.

There is of course not a gouvernment on earth which would have the balls to do the necessary and tell us to stop using our cars, ration electricity to 2 hours a day and prevent us from ever travelling further than the next village along the road. And thank fuck for that. We will of course all do what we've always done, ie as near to sweet fuck all as is possible. maybe seperating the treeloads of cardboard wrapping from the plastic wrapped water containers as we fling them away, their only purpose having been to show us a picture of the microwave meal, that we could have seen anyway if the bloody wrapping hadn't been covering it in the first place.

And when the shit hits the fan and the Thames comes lapping at the foothills of the Chilterns we'll find some way of dealing with it, happy that can we point the finger of blame at the government which we wouldn't have ever let do anything to stop the disaster happening in the first place.

And this morning I couldn't give a tuppeny toss, because it's one of those days when if global warming is working, then we all say, bring it on!

It certainly isn't warm. There's a thick frost tucked into the long grass where the sun doesn't reach and the morning sun is a blazing pastiche of it's infernal summer cousin. S's pullout, together with the weather, leaves absolutely no wriggle room from a morning walk. And within two minutes of setting out I am very glad of it.
My toes are tingling, and my hands brittle with the cold as I set out from behind GK school. Following the path away from the road I hear the percussive rat a tat of a woodpecker up high in the trees. I stop for a while and try to get a sighting, but without joy. Heading downhill the mud is serrated and frozen as the sun has yet to creeep over the neighbouring trees. I skid down the slope, feet sideways and hands outwards to keep my balance, taking care not to grab the barbed wire in panic.
The path leads out onto Boss Lane, and the lovely old houses that lead on to this wonderfully secluded location. Over the main road, behind the village Hall at Hughenden, and out onto open fields, looking so wonderful in their frosty winter coating. I notice today for the first time that the river to one side gives onto a deep pond, half hidden by the trees, where a brace of mallards do nothing but give off an air of total contentment with their lot.
In the distance come a woman and a dog. Strangely I recognise the dog first, and from it deduce the owner. It's Hannah Blowing, whose grumpy husband runs the Spar shop. She was part of the midwifery team which delivered little Emsy. She says a friendly hello, but neither of us are in the mood to brake our stride.
Over the fields, up to the church which looks out steadfastly on the grazing sheep which mock the cold and tear at the mossy grass.
Almost at the top of the hill I spy the woman I had chatted to a week or so before, along with her friendly scruffy dog. She was pleasant enough and we had shared the woods for 15 minutes, but today I really don't want to talk. I sense that she has seen and recognised me and is prepared to renew our acquaintance. So I pull my phone from my pocket and pretend to receive a call. I wait for five minutes until she has disappeared deep into the woods, and then continue on my way. And I feel rather cheap for having done it.
Through the woods at Downley, over the common and the sun is starting to melt the frost, and the steam shimmers above the grassland. I am warming too, the effort sending warmth to all my extremities, and a satisfying skin of sweat lies across my forehead.
Past the de Spencer Arms. How welcoming does the English country pub look compared with those miserable street bars in Marrakech? The winter sun, meanwhile is starting almost to rival it's African counterpart, though it doesn't stay so warm if I stop for too long.
I trudge through the mud along behind the houses in Naphill, and then head along the path and over the road, slipping and sliding through the pasture, and then onto the big wide field leading to the woods. I trace my route into the trees, but this is the bit I can never get right, and have to go off piste to get myself back on track. I stop on a stile and sit for five minutes in the wonderful sunshine, and wonder how this scene would have looked a hundred, two hundred years ago. I try to remove everything modern, and implant a horse drawn carriage onto a dusty track. There's not much to change. For the first time in years and years, I'd like to smoke. Just to sit and enjoy a ciggie, or maybe even a pipe as I gaze over this wonderful unchanging countryside.
Up a steep slope, then diagonally over a fallow field towards the Harrow. The pub is closed, and I wonder if I'd be tempted inside for a warm drink if it were otherwise.
Now for the big challenge. The steps which lead up the back of Cryer's Hill. At least 250 footsteps, and as many as 500 until the uphill climb finally relents. Near the top I hear a rustling and turn to see a muntjack no more than 30 yards away. We stare at eacher other for five or ten seconds. He's not a pretty fellow, his striped face giving him a mean expression that elicites little of the usual sympathy a deer can rely on. He eyes me with annoyance, then decides he's seen enough and moves off at his own pace.
Up to Piper's school, the girls are at playtime, and a wave of regret passes over me that I never did enough to offer our kids the opportunity of a paid for education.
S calls me. There was some vague plan that he might get away for the afternoon. He won't. It's hard to say I am not pleased. A day's pay for no work can never really seem a bad deal, and all the better on a day like this.
I get back into the car, pay my cheques into the bank and head for home.
After such a good start to the day, positive plans pass through my head. Start decorating the sitting room, fill in the holes in the ceiling. Alas, I succumb to the need to sleep (last night had been intermittent) and the lure of the internet dommes. Why do I do it? Where does it get me? How much of my bloody life have I wasted in such transient titillation?
Sophes gets home and snaps me out of it, and then it's up to collect little Emsy and hear about her day. Bless her, she had gone to school armed with H's hockey stick, but turned out to be the only one, and hockey wasn't on the menu.
Sophie is out to dinner again, this time at Pizza Hut. I go for the usual Monday beer and curry and she meets me in the Curry Centre. Must start to take the diet more seriously again, the weight is stuck between 13/10 at the very best, and 13/12, sometimes 13/13.