The winter & autumnal winds are here, circling the house, throwing up leaves & rainstorms. I have taken to hiding under the downy, in fact I have rediscovered hiding under the downy all over again. Only the collies nose is visible at the other end of the bed & my woolly socks are half hanging off giving the cosy impression of Rumplestiltskin feet. And get this, the torch works, under the covers with a good book. I have regressed somehow. I had forgotten I'm allowed to do this. I rarely allow myself to enjoy times like this, for fear of missing out on the next Greenlandic equivalent of wiggling my nose, the next kayaking mission where I will fling myself into the elements, a frail entity in a small craft engulfed by Goliath. All qajaq are storm tied for the duration.

But now it's downy time, Sunday, rattling windows & leaves finding their way in through the kitchen window. I am as ever, enjoying finding them in bizarre places. I did stand upright briefly, to open the door for the collie, who dutifully looked out, looked back at me & said, Naw, yer ok man, I'll cross mallaigs. We're going nowhere & we're both proud of it. I have started to re-read Paul Carters excellent book entitled Don't Tell Mum I work on The Rigs - She Thinks I'm a Piano Player in a Whorehouse, only coming out for more crackers & hot chocolate. There is a dusting of snow on the higher Cuillin & the eviscerating wind on patrol serves only to bolster my resolve to get a vast amount of crumbs in the bed by this evening & some Cullen Skink in my belly by night fall. Bar cold sprints across the boards to restock & a Fugloy solo circ nav invading my thoughts at each turned book leaf, all the heros are on hold.