As the freezing shitdrizzle comes down I sit at the back door and watch Mrs Blackbird pick off all the remaining red berries. The wood pigeons left them alone for some reason. There used to be a Mr Blackbird. But that was years ago. That stupid fucking cat next door has probably killed him and bitten his head off. I like cats… sometimes, but on the whole they are like Hannibel Lecter in the Slience of the Lambs… psychpathic killers who can be hugely charming, if they’re in the mood.

I am still sick and have had a cough for months. I have a referral to go to hospital for a chest X-ray, mainly to rule out the possibility of terminal lung cancer (it’s the time of year for taking the worst case scenario of everything). If it was normal rain I would walk, but this rain with the consistency of the bottom of one of those slushpuppy ice drinks the kids like, so I sit on the top deck of the No. 4 bus and try to enjoy the scenery through the dirt and drizzle coated windows, while trying to cough all over the seat. It is most likely asthma reappearing due to pollution. But it could be I am allergic to the dog. However, me being sick has coincided with a massive burst of creative energy. When I get home I get the urge to write a folk song about my old stomping ground of North Lincolnshire. When my wife gets home from work and asks how was my day – bird, cats, bus, folksongs – I feel I’m not quite at the cutting edge of fast paced 21st Century life.