…scared! In accord with pussy-cat law, my faithful companion has woken me at four o’clock in the morning. Outside, the world is the colour of purity, snow illuminating the darkness, like a force of nature in the wake of human transgression disguised as progress. Even the house is shivering cold. Inside, a young, old lady feels older now, than before the snow had fallen. Her cat scratches the door hoping that she will open it; he is innocent of the horrors beyond and the potential hazards of snow. The wind screams in pain, embracing all with persistent lashes of its lustful tongue. There are screaming banshees, out there; I know, for I have seen them…in the eye of my mind, wearing sexy underwear and the pouts of witches. And windows vibrate like the bedevilled soul of Heathcliff caressed by Cathy’s ghostly presence. I imagine the wuthering heights of Kate Bush’s voice and am reassured by my knowledge that bush is enjoyed by nearly all. Currently defining the western world is a crisis of ideas. I think I shall go back to bed and pretend that it is summer.