Now, as the air becomes clearer and that special yellow-filtered light glows in the world outside my window, I am once more at home. In the sense of Fuchsia's attic in Peake's 'Gormenghast'. This is my time of year, always has been - I don't know why ... add it to my growing list of unknowns. But that it is, of that I have no doubt. When that first chill morning arrives and the clear light fills the thin air. When the leaves begin to take on their autumn collection. The New Look - every year. I must have happy memories ... although I am damned if I can quite place them. Like so many things, just beyond my peripheral vision, seen but unseen. Where the crock of gold is found. The 'cnoc', the Celtic 'hill', where the halls of gold lie under and are guarded jealously by the old folk, the 'sidh' (pronounced 'she', maybe Shi* ). So, an autumnal day and one of those with Canaletto skies and Klimt colours. I am skiving, playing hookie, not working when I should be. Sometimes enough is too much and you just have to say, 'Fuck it'. Let them wait. The moment is too good not to be savoured. So I will go and tend my sorely neglected garden. Recharge my batteries, dream some dreams, re-unite with my muse. A good weekend to all!