Brief conversation with the stunning young man behind me in the coffee queue at Marylebone.  He asked me in the loveliest, gentlest, sexiest voice, if there was anywhere on the station where he could get warm.  I should have answered, "in my arms", but instead I smiled foolishly and said that the only warm place was probably in a train.  He smiled straight at me, and complained that his train didn't leave until ten-to, a good 40 minutes away.  I wonder if he travels that way regularly?

The journey to Wycombe made short and joyous by a moving and delightful short story by the foremost literary genius of the 21st century.  Next time I must bring tissues.

A squirrel leaps exuberantly from spindly, leafless tree to spindly leafless tree, the thin branches bending and bouncing in great extravagant arcs in the golden winter sun.

The imminent, scary prospect of freedom. An ending, so that there may be a beginning.