I stood at the bus-stop this morning and rubbed my hands and wished I was wearing gloves. I coughed and I saw my breath steam in the damp chill, while all around yellowed lime trees lost their leaves in a damp spatter. At the train station, I stood in cold rain, little needles of cold from a flat grey sky, and missed my warm home bed cat sofa. Night fell fast and dull this evenings and I stamped home chilly over pavements slippery with rain, murk and thick layers of dead wet leaves. Winter is out there. But in here, it is always summer, always warm, always bright.