Sunday 18 November
Cling to Daisy’s hand as she descends from the bed-deck somewhat gingerly. The slow ache of parting I could have savoured all morning, had not Miss Jordan whacked me over the head with her broom (Daisy looked far too relieved for my liking). Still, I am walking on air all day. A rampant late Spring to the year and to my step. However, the surveyancing suggested therein is not of a blue-skied Manchester, growing sterner and stronger as the temperature drops, but on and around my well-mapped head and heart. And yes, I conclude – by turns happily and unhappily – I am in love.