The strange black window that is not a window.
The rhubarb harvest is coming in, stick by stick, stalk by stalk, leaf by leaf into the compost bin. The fresh stalks will be cleaned and soaked in brandy and sugar, raisins will be added and golden syrup. Then the steady baking in the slowest and most effective heat that Scottish electricity can muster - and then we breathe deeply and wait. And so to sleep.
It's true a cat can fit into a Tesco "bag for life".
Currently listening to "Owner of a lonely heart" by Yes. Going round and round in my head. Is there no end to this madness?