I'm in the kind of low mood which makes reckless displacement activity seem perfectly reasonable - getting a drastic new hairdo, running off with an unsuitable man or boarding a plane to Somewhere Else. In the far distant past I once managed all three at once.
A dense grey mist presses itself against the windows, attempting to insinuate itself into my little flat. The washing I hung out days ago is still on the line drooping and disconsolate. What passes for a lawn is almost as high as an elephant’s eye. It’s certainly higher than a Fox Terrier’s eye.
The dog, who hates wet weather as much as I do, has made just one expedition outside, driven by an irresistibly full bladder. The long grass closed over his head immediately and the only evidence of his passage across the yard was the twitching of green stems in his wake.