February swished in with rain and slushy mud, closely followed by a cold snap which even included a light dusting of snow.
But, sadly, it didn’t last long. No opportunities for tobogganing down the field. Shame, that.
Rain on the plain in Spain has meant iceberg lettuces being rationed and small loans being taken out to pay for courgettes. What is Europe coming to?
In the faraway worlds of Tinseltown and La La Land (aren’t they the same place?), award winners and nominees are slagging off Trump as if he were the country’s worst-ever president. I couldn’t possibly comment.
The countryside of Dorset, meanwhile, remains constant, with the sheep safely grazing in the cold, old fields and the church bells pealing rather joyfully on Sundays and practice nights.
Planning for a big breakfast to raise money for the village hall is well underway and the search is on for a replacement for the village shop manager, who has been head-hunted to run the shop of a garage near Dorchester.
Agas puff away, chimneys belch out an aromatic smoke which reminds us of our primeval past and the streams and rivers ebb and flow with the tug-of-war rains, which are on one minute and off the next. Piles of cow dung steam in turnip field and a tree stump rises like a countryside totem pole in the hedge.
The sun also rises.
Roll on spring. But for Valentine’s Day, what on earth is February for?