Not the photo. Not my model either. This was the first flight of my friends’ glider spanning 4 metres, and quite a few days to get it ready to chuck. It all went very well until he accidentally activated the airbrakes, wherein the glider changed from wind-riding, effortless flight to soil-guided bomb.

It missed the tree, but still hit the ground. And then broke in half. Still apparently repairable, although such alchemy is beyond a simple man like me who looks at broken stuff and thinks “firewood”.

Of which, I moved about half a ton today from one side of the garden to another. Reasons unknown. It has tweaked my bad knee – when I attempted an Irish leggy rotational pummeling twirl on a wet, spherical log – to the point that I disappointed the mutt by curtailing the evening walk on medical grounds.

A ground that was both saturated and getting more so. The dog showed every outward visible sign of enjoyment while I limped along, grumbling into a facefull of almost sleet and wondering at what point it may stop raining.

That was some time ago, and yet there is nothing outside that suggest we’ll not be rowing to the gate in the morning. A morning where I should be riding, but I’ve already made my excuses. I know I was giving it the big one about how riding in the shit, and the grim was fantastic, but I’ve come to my senses.

Wet, Cold, Dark. Pick two. Otherwise, pick up a bottle and the remote control. That’s where it’s at in Winter ’09.