Today is the first day that feels properly, winterly short. I'm in a building in one of those crooked cobbled City backstreets, and by half three the afternoon light is fading. In the gloom it's easy to imagine this old lane in bygone eras. This is something I do a lot - all over the place, but particularly in the City. Today it's a toss-up between medieval guild apprentices, kicking a pig's bladder through straw and shit, and the decorous promenading of Regency couples, all poke bonnets and buckskin breeches. 
Guild apprentices win, as I follow the imaginary bladder through the streets to the station. The journey home is peppered with fireworks, My hands are crabbed with cold. I am wearing a poppy. Yes, it is NovemberI realise that this it is a year since I started writing this. Not really of any relevance, but I feel I should say it. There is no plan or point to this blog. It does not lead to the station.
I'm just kicking the bladder around.
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