Well, the good news is that if Barnyards ploughs the back drive for us, the oil tanker will be able to reach us, probably. The bad news is that having lost a tractor in a snowdrift (no, really) he can’t do it till Monday, though he has managed to get round his cattle, I’m pleased to say. Here at the house, the Spirit that Built the Empire is being splendidly manifested on all hands. We are keeping calm and carrying on, like the poster says. Last night’s dinner was very jolly, despite taking place in a freezing cold dining room, something which the company affected to ignore. Upper lips were being worn so stiff it’s a wonder anyone managed to eat anything. Meanwhile, outside, there is now so much snow that it is taller than a cat. One consequence of this is that Miss Kit has taken to performing her ablutions in my footprints. Over the days, I have made a strange, tunnel-like track down my garden and veering off to the end of the wood. I was standing in it this afternoon alternately watching Miss Kit sitting in a wellie-boot hole, nothing visible of her but the ears, and a sinisterly glorious sunset of flaming coral and gold shining through a lattice of completely white tree-branches. Once mission was accomplished and we started making our way back, I noticed that the rough cats, who of course have exactly the same problem with being in over their heads if they try and strike out across the frozen wastes, have been following her example, and the floor of my tunnel is punctuated with the proverbial piss holes in the snow. There are stupendous icicles hanging from the gutters — the biggest are about three feet long — providing a certain incentive to nip through the door pretty sharpish.