In Lerwick, Archie MacDuff stood looking out of his kitchen window. He watched the waves crash over the harbour wall, while the fine snow built up gently against the window pane.

The weather didn’t bother him. It never did. Once it had been so cold that he had had to push his boat over a mile of frozen sea, just to make it to the waters edge. Hard work, but fine fishing.

Archie’s current bout of tuberculosis, cow fever and fisherman’s lung was nagging at him slightly, but he knew that tradition alone would take a MacDuff to sea, no matter what the problems. His father Hamish had once put to sea with both his arms in splints. It had been difficult handling the nets, but a MacDuff knew what had to be done. He had managed well, as by luck Hamish had very dexterous feet.

Archie’s grandfather Muriel (it’s a long story, but it might have been due to being born with an inverted penis) had lost his left eye in a freak herring accident, had his ears chewed off by a mutant sea bass, and had once sailed out while still attached to a intravenous drip on a stand. It had taken up a bit of space in the boat, but had come in handy when he had to beat a large cod into submission.

Life was hard for the MacDuff’s, but they were hard men, capable of seeing anything through, no matter how they were feeling.

Meanwhile in Bookham, Dave Caswell poked his nose over the edge of the duvet. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather” he mumbled, and went back to sleep. His cycling buddies meanwhile braved all and set off to Surrey Hills.

I’ll let you draw you own conclusions!