Through a veil of rain and a fog of fever (lousy cold), the quiet Sunday world is all echoes and contrasts, rushing and flagging, Autumn embers sliding down dark trees to lay thick, slimy carpets on the pavement. My inner kaleidoscope, flickering and shifting from black and white to lurid colour, shivery cold to fiery hot, and back again, turning it all into a crazy unfamiliar 3D picture show.
SATURDAY 8 NOVEMBER
From now until Spring, it's a mole-like existence, with working days spent tunnelled deep and no idea what the sun is doing. So surfacing on Saturday to find it's not doing very much, lost above a roof of purple rain-clouds, is a bit disappointing. The cold and wet on your skin, though, on your dripping snout protruding from the ambit of your umbrella, do tell you you're alive.