It is a drizzly and drearsome morning. Lois' friend Margery Magpie was sitting on her back, gently plucking some loose hairs. The Oak trees have succombed to the weather
and turned into flame orange balls amongst the dull and darkened hedgerows. The footpath, although damp, is alight with the reds and yellows and oranges of the fallen leaves. How strange that the trees moult just like us at this time of the year. The nettles and thistles are shrinking back into the ground and the ditch that runs along the footpath is appearing once again - just in time for the winter rain. We picked at our corn and wondered what we could get up to today. The Rosecomb Gang sat under the Water Tower in the relative shelter of the last precious green leaves and we decided that it was a moochy sort of day. A neither here nor there sort of day. Hey Ho. Gordon xxx