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Of course, it's not proper winter weather, as it's hard to feel particularly hard done by when your entire town grinds to a halt under two inches of snow, most of which has melted by tea-time.
However, a strategically-placed snowflake on Friday morning completely blocked off all road access to Weymouth, to the point that no forty-ton trucks were able to get through in order to feed the starving masses for one whole day.
I discovered this on Saturday when I found myself wrestling a pensioner for the last organic carrot our branch of Morrisons had to offer, while an entrepreneur stood by the tills offering a pint of semi-skimmed for twenty of The Queen's Pounds.
As I pummelled away at the old boy's frankly redundant family jewels with my free arm, I asked myself the important question:
What the bloody hell does a pensioner want with organic carrots?
And why is he still vainly clinging on to the bag of loose shallots that I will most certainly need for the fine pensioner stew I have planned for later?
"Get to the tinned veg aisle where you belong", I told him, "before I poke you in the eye with the blunt part of your walking-frame and nick your Oxo cubes".
But no. He wouldn't listen, and now there's another suspicious mound of earth round the back of the industrial estate, and another invoice for a hundredweight of quicklime that's going to be tough to explain away.
Said too much.
Stupid weather.
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