CHARLOTTE SOMETIMES - BACK TO SCHOOL

Granny will fulfill, at last, a promise she made a little while back to show you pictures of her old school, the one she stole to use as Charlotte's school and, to compound this felony, removed from Kent and dumped down by the Thames at Isleworth instead. Writers can be ruthless like that.

So in due order - courtesy of Beloved Son's camera and email - here they are: The front door, flanked by pillars which appears very early on
The cedar tree which, ruthless again, she cut down for the fifties episodes.


And, finally, the glassed over verandah which Granny climbed on and broke once, for real - and which she made Charlotte do, fictionally, in the book.

So there you are: the creative processes laid bare. Are you any the wiser? She isn't.

As for the rest: the south west duly winds turned up, as promised - Beloved lit the fire anyway against Granny's advice and kippered them: her clothes now smell of woodsmoke. But the rain didn't - which is all wrong, south west winds always bring rain - or did. Global warming I daresay, darlings. The only wet stuff is Granny's marginal tears; her favourite speckled hen, Daisy, was found dead yesterday. She's left progeny behind her, a bit speckled, but not nearly so pretty. Granny is sad.

'All flesh is grass,' she quoted to Beloved in bed last night, as they were turning off the light.

'What about fish?' he objected.

'Oh go and argue it out with the Bible,' groaned Granny, wrapping herself round him. Bloody scientists: again.

(They are still wondering what Christmas delight will appear on the roundabout. That work of art hasn't advanced any. Things turn slowly, up this way.)