It's a bizarre time to be alive. For the first time in my life (and let's face it, despite my boyish good looks, I'm no spring chicken) Europe is playing host to a trans-national war and, even scarier, one of the protagonists is quite possibly enough of a demented shit to push the nucleat button. I have decided that the best thing to do is to carry on as normal (or as near to normal as the life of the Pig allows) and I have even stopped watching the value of our investments yo-yoing up and down as the kids in the City keep pissing about. Mind you, if and when this horrible Ukraine situation is sorted, we will still have to deal with a problem that I have experienced before, that is to say the ruinous inflation our lords and masters have allowed to be stoked-up in the economy. I did warn them but quite clearly they are not amongst my readers.
So Spring has sprung. And the lawn back at Casa Piggy has got its first stripes of the year. Stripes give me feeling of remarkable well-being. And, lo and behold, I arrived here at Plas Piggy last night (here for a writing camp and to watch the Six Nations) to the pleasing sight of the lawns and the hedges here having been clipped for the first time this year by my faithful retainer (well actaully a bloke from Amlwch who's brilliant).
At the moment it's raining but, this being Wales, we are only ten minutes away from the first of two televised rugby matches tonight - a club match preceding Wales v France. I note with dismay that the magnificent Principality Stadium (so much better than Twickenham) is not expecetd to be full tonight for what should be a cracking match. That's what happens when you sell your soul to television. God, listen to me. So old.
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