Nice little walkies round the Valley Gardens yesterday, interrupted by me Dad wittering into his mobile phone all the way with me just keen to admire the natural beauty of the landscape and roll in some shit given half the chance. From what I could gather front-end tightness in London wheat (may closed a fiver over July last night) is down to a certain merchant being short cash against long futures and wanting to take delivery of the physical wheat. Which me Dad says ties in nicely with reports he's heard that they have been collecting ex-farm wheat on contract a month early pretty much all through the winter. The merchant involved? I couldn't quite catch it, it's a shame that nobody likes them though, just because their ear is in the wrong place. I'll send them one of my poohs in a jiffy bag, that'll cheer them up.

The NFU have apparently picked a three-legged sheepdog as their farm dog of the year. Three-legged Jack took the top prize after his Welsh owners wrote in to tell them how he had suffered a serious leg injury last year and despite an amputation, made a miraculous recovery and continues to work on the farm. The tight bastards, let him have a rest, he's only got three legs. Still, that's the bloody Welsh for you. His owners probably talk to each other in English when the dog's not there, out working, and then immediately switch to talking to each other in Welsh when he enters the room. Me Dad's Dad got evacuated to a farm in Wales during the war and they took his bloody sweet coupons off him and gave them to their own kids, the tight bastards. It's probably the same people.