Sweeping up black, not white stuff

The knock at the door came at 8-45am. It was expected at 9am, but I was already running late, drinking my tea and considering the first proper covering of snow that fell during the night.

Clive looked up at me, as I poked my head from an upstairs window and apologised for keeping him waiting on our doorstep. His assistant was dressed in army fatigues (US style, I think), circa 1960, and he came rushing in with dust sheets, blackened rods, bristling brushes and an industrial-size hoover. Clive followed him in his Fred Perry t-shirt, with Clive Wynn - Chimney Sweeps stamped on his left breast.

He laughingly complained about the quality of driving, as he had just seen a minor accident in Spider Lane at the end of our road. "Why don't people know how to drive in the snow!", he muttered jovially, because that is his lovely manner.

Cats aren't too good in the snow either. Bomble on being shown the back door, because he was trying to run away from the invasion of people, baulked when he realised there was snow. He delicately placed a paw on it, pulled it back again in disgust, then decided he really had to go out, and tippy-toed across the flakes. I expect he wanted me to sweep the snow for him.

Clive is a wonderful local character. I asked him if I could take a photo, and he immediately said he would pose for me. But I had taken this shot instantly. I had no room to move, and couldn't retreat far or fast enough to control the camera. The second posed shot was even worse on my part.

So despite the quality, I would like you all to meet Clive and we agreed that we would probably meet in the local pub before very long for a chat. I look forward to it.