The afternoon was bright, so as soon as I could I headed for a walk which can be done in flat courts, so I wouldn’t have to waste time getting changed. This was a large chalk hill where the surface would be well-drained even in this vile summer. But before I got there, at four o’clock in the afternoon for goodness sake, coils of mist were swirling over the road.
‘Pollyanna’ was poked at me when I was too young to resist, and to my pure annoyance I heard that inner voice: ‘You can be glad it’s not actually raining…’ So I wandered up the hill into the fog. Now the trouble with being rude about Pollyanna is that her method often works. And on this occasion, all that fog was surprisingly restful.