It's all getting a bit serious around here so here's some light relief with a twist in the tale (no pun intended).
Roly, our cockapoo puppy, is now 20 weeks old and here he is, photographed yesterday. He's not looking his absolute best because we'd just got back from a walk in a wet and muddy field in Peterborough where my son was playing rugby. (You should see the state of my car after he shook all the mud out of his fur. It's like the Somme in there.)
I've had lots of pets in my time – rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, fish – but never a dog, so I'm still getting used to it. From the moment we got him, however, Roly has been the sweetest, most sociable animal you could wish to have. I don't think he's the brightest mutt in the world (more cocker spaniel than poodle, I would guess) but we love him to bits.
Others seem to like him too. Children are always coming up to stroke him. (Perhaps they think he's a teddy bear.)
A few weeks ago, when we took him into London, a taxi driver stopped his cab, climbed out, ran across the road to where we were standing, and gasped: "Is that a cockapoo?" We chatted for at least five minutes while his taxi sat, engine running, blocking one lane.
Back home in Cambridgeshire, walking around the village with Roly been quite an education. We've lived here for twelve years and I have discovered houses and cottages that I barely knew existed.
It's been an education in other ways too. On the whole the village is fairly clean and well maintained. (It should be. Our MP lives in a big house in the centre of the village directly opposite the Post Office.)
Off the beaten track, however, there's more litter than I care to see. I've seen plastic bottles and containers, fizzy drink cans, sweet wrappers, crisp packets, fast food cartons, paper tissues, even a traffic cone.
Interestingly, since we started walking Roly eight weeks ago, I have seen very few fag ends and only one cigarette pack. Discuss.