Mist Vincey to Richardmenil

The old familiar mist is back every morning now.

The one that hangs above the water until the morning sun burns it away has been absent, as the morning sun seems to come on as though by switch of late, and the lack of cloud is an indicator that there is little in the way of actual humidity to bring the mist into being.

No, the mist to which I refer is the rapidly re-established splutterings of our dear Mr Perkins.  It's as though he doesn't want to go home yet, coughing and wheezing as he does when we first give him a nudge out of bed.   Oh he recovers well enough once he's underway, but I do think it's time we put him in the care of a surgeon.

It is quite nice though, the smell of diesel fumes in the morning once one gets used to it.