On my way to a second-hand boat test yesterday at 0600 I could not get the heater to work in my company car. By the time I was approaching Hayling Island in Hants, I understood how Napoleon’s Grand Armee felt on the retreat from Moscow. One fusilier, who had lost his boots, stuffed his feet in the disembowelled carcass of a horse one night hoping the sub-zero temperatures would allow him enough pedestrian digits to be able to continue towards the Polish border the following day.

There only being fox carcasses on the hard shoulder of the A3 I had to make do with the disabled lavatory of a Wimpey Bar. Here was enough room to remove my boots and socks, bind my feet with loo roll, pull my socks on again and then line my boots with serviettes from the restaurant.

Looking like a shuffling Guy Fawkes I made my way to mine host’s yacht in Northney Marina apologising for the paper trailing from beneath my trousers.

But my feet were warm as toast all day.