All the way down the M4 from Newbury to Bristol, the information signs were reading: 'THINK BIKE. THINK BIKER'. Vague images of Marlon Brando and Lee Marvin kept distracting me from the incidental business of steering this thing. Around Cardiff, they started to say: 'THINK - DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE'. Well, it's a bit late to tell me that, I thought. But I'll leave the bottle of Old Bushmills in the glove compartment from now on.
On past occasions, I've been exhorted by these same displays (or rather the sanctimonious prats who sit behind them) to 'THINK - FASTEN YOUR SEATBELT', 'THINK - USE YOUR MIRRORS', and 'THINK - DON'T DRIVE TIRED'. I'm surprised not have seen one telling me to 'THINK - DON'T THINK AND DRIVE'.
When I got there, the promised toilet connectivity hadn't been connected. Unaccountably, I wasn't surprised. The septic tanks, however, had been installed, with the result that my view, instead of the lush gently sloping green meadow down to the silver sea, now resembles an abandoned motocross course. Not that I could see it for the haar. Grass seeds have, however, been scattered, and at least I've gained some nice new turf on my sitting-out area in front. To be fair, winter has been harsh by Pembrokeshire standards. You can't dig eight-foot deep holes when it's permafrost or bogland. Patience. A Pembrokeshire virtue.
No rabbit movies. As soon as you step outside to film them, they vanish. Perhaps they're virtual rabbits.