don’t talk to me I’m quiet in the morning

A tough 4.45am start. Taxi driver persists in breaking the Headphones Rule – I do not feel in the slightest bit chatty. I am flying to Southampton. Yes I am coming back Monday. Shut your lonely taxi driving face.

A layer of cold mist hangs chest height over the fields. Thankful not to be a hunter-gatherer, shivering and dreaming of fat rabbits. Sun is only a threat under the horizon. Hedgerows in dark tones fade in grey steps further away, just like they taught you in Art.

Into the airport for belt and shoes off, no beep from the metal detector but the over-perfumed security guy frisks me for laughs. A quick finger run round the inside of the waistband, interesting. Somehow get through unsodomised.

The coffee gets working and the shufflepixie in the iPod demonstrates an excellent mood. The stewardess puts the batteries in our primitive aeroplane and I’m off again.

From high in the air, the mists lying in valleys below look like spider webs in the morning dew. Vast spider webs tended by slow spider gods with legs a mile long.

Morning sunlight on the rivers below like slivers of spilled gold.