The trip that never was....

Here's a sad story of someone who'd booked to go to Venice tomorrow in an aeroplane, only to be thwarted by a big bad volcano in Iceland.  I'm sure everyone's heard the joke that we asked Iceland to return our cash, not send us ash, but there you go.  
There's nothing I can do about it (though in a mad moment I seriously contemplated driving there until reality bit me) and I feel for all the people all over the world who are stranded, missing the white cliffs of Dover and tea and jam and scones and watching Eastenders on the telly.   At least I've got all that, all they've got is extra sunshine and duty free.  

I know its being claimed that we can't actually SEE the ash - but how come my black car is covered in something that looks suspiciously like talcum powder mixed with grit?  How come the skies are cement coloured?  How come?

My naughty horse has refused to come in to his stable tonight, preferring to spend a romantic night in the moonlight with his 38 year old 'girlfriend' called Fergie.  (And 38 is going some for a horse...); it seems when you've got it, you've got it, even when you're a scruffy old strawberry roan with arthritic legs (no, I'm not talking about myself)...

Now, where's that map?