I really should learn that reading the Sunday papers over breakfast is a sure fire way of bringing on dyspepsia, apoplexy and a chronic attack of the Victor Meldrew's filled as they are with tales of the "elf and safety" Mafia, a legal system that seems far more intent on punishing victims of crime than the perpetrators and politicians whose perceptions of real life seem to have been formed on the planet Zog.  But this morning as I waded through the small rain forest of Fleet Street's finest (now produced in Victoria Street) I came across the salvation of the world! 

I have long been addicted to the delights of a small brown bar in a distinctive black, gold and red wrapper.  This has sustained me even when found to be deformed, redolent of sweat and carbide (when carried under a caving helmet since you ask) or almost liquid on a hot summer's day in the oven of a railway carriage.  The magnificent Mars bar is, oh glories of glories, now to be offered in dark chocolate

So the economy may be going to hell in a hand cart,  the earth may be about to boil away into the void and there may be no new series of Dr Who next year, but who cares now that we have a dark chocolate Mars bar.

Turning to matters prosaic and piscatorial, the river is far too low now for decent salmon fishing with merely a dribble going over Settle weir and nothing of note moving up Stainforth Foss.  The forecast for this week holds little prospect of rain with a ridge of high pressure centred over the UK.  So it looks as though the Tarn is the best bet for the time being.

Ian