The Vile Vikings’ upper terrace sits just beneath our patio. It’s a bit of a sun trap and shielded from the wind. Ragnild has decided to let it all hang out, and we have a constant view of her gravity-ravaged baps. To be fair she tries to hide her lower dignity with a piece of string, but she has a rather over-abundant bush which is most upsetting. I am mischievously thinking of presenting her with a jar of Veet as an early Christmas gift. Miserable Cnut continues to be a wretched little man who whines all day about everything. I thought whining was a peculiarly British habit. For the sake of good community relations, I am resisting the temptation to tell him to sod off.