Comfortable Grey.

Today is day for those things that can always be relied upon, the pleasure of a full stomach, the comfort of blankets, the distraction of a good book. The sky is low and leaden, and a wet wind blows. As a child I was fond of long walks in solitude, and the blustery conditions kept the Texans away.

The essence of days like this I always think of as a time I stood upon the summit of an iron age hill fort, the unbelievably lush grass bending beneath the force of an Atlantic gale. My anorak played a tattoo with raindrops, while I remained warm and musty in a sweater. There was no-one in sight and I felt so perfectly right, a full sense of belonging, time not passing and myself a thousand years old.

I have antipathy for people today, and I strongly suspect that people have antipathy for myself, not just now, but in general. A bed, a bath, a book and a blanket, all can be relied upon but people will always disappoint. People will also amaze, amuse and astonish, but they also always disappoint.

I have a whimsy of building with my own hands a tiny one room cottage of field stone and turf roof, out in the damp depths of nowhere. It is just a whimsy, I flutter from one mood to the next, but this mood is about hiding, and such a place seems a fitting place to hide.