What is it about wet weather in summer that brings out the worst in people (including nuns)? Found myself being carved up on the A34 yesterday and thinking uncharitable thoughts about the carver-uper (which, as everybody knows, nuns are not allowed to think). Then I thought even more uncharitable thoughts about a long series of unnecessary telephone calls (always distrust people who begin, "I was wondering if you could just . . ." and then go on with a list of demands which makes the Labours of Hercules look like a quick trip to the corner shop). I even thought uncharitable thoughts about a bundle of wet dog deciding that I was his best friend ever and needed a display of doggy affection. Hopeless. I'm just a grumpy nun.