A French air controller strike delayed my flight home, so I arrived two hours later, pale and semi-dazed in foggy Knock after warm, sunny London. No bother. I waited in the bus shelter while two ancient expats discussed the differences in weather and transport efficiency. One told the other that he quite liked the fact that the village had only two buses and that a midday bus ran at 3pm.

I don't know how to write here anymore. Are the days so particular anymore, amidst the chapter manuscripts, piles of notes, and virtual to-do lists? The tomatoes refuse to ripen; they draw thick skins against the cool wet Irish autumn. Only one avocado among several has sprouted roots and a thin spire in its little jar. The leaves are falling, the cygnets grown, and I no longer notice so keenly the old men cycling by, the changing city, summer slipping into autumn.

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