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(Still not there yet. However - may have found a solution to carpet woes...)

Well I'm walking home tonight, and it's a mellow city sunset-y evening, and I'm looking at the city architecture and all the windows showing people piled on top of one another, and the old chimneys with nothing coming out; and can't hear myself think in the roar of the traffic.

And I come upon a poor brave old city sycamore tree that stood next to a particularly amazing building. It had fallen, in the recent wild gusts; a calamity of so long life. And today it was sliced up and is now lying shattered, waiting to be loaded up and taken away to who knows what fate, but I suspect it won't be anything useful.

"Ach. Someone up on the island could use that; what a waste of a poor old tree."

Thinking of the north, this evening. And the gloaming, and bare rocks, and high places, and the colours on the hills, and the very few trees; and the wind, and the sea, and the boats, and the lilts ... and peace and quiet.

Can't wait!