Sometimes I fret, being at the end of the road, the last house . . . there is nothing to break the wind, it tears into us fresh from the mountains like an eager over-sized puppy sprinting across the field, tongue flapping, bowling us over with its enthusiasm, licking us in the face as we lie helpless, flat on our backs.
Of course I have a choice at that very moment; I can become become irritated and struggle - to no avail - or I can laugh with delight as that cold tongue of winter slobbers all over . . . and I'm happy to report, I am learning to laugh more . . .