Hello sky, hello jet.

A clear, cold Sunday; late afternoon in Chiswick. Although the sun had begun to set the sky was still dazzlingly blue, and this jet made its way to where I wonder? Moscow? Tokyo? I like the way the Moon appears to bend the plane to its will. All those people nodding off in front of a six-month old Vince Vaughan movie, a warm glass of champagne in a plastic cup and a cleverly packaged meal-like meal in front of them, and me 37,000 ft below, pruning a wisteria, not quite duty-free.

William Morris Minor

Holland Park is just up the road. These are the leaves that fell on the pond in front of us, as we walked and talked, my son and I, two weeks ago, on a cold London Saturday with signs saying 'No cycling, no skating, no ball games, no smoking, no laughing, smiling, kissing, holding of hands, mirth, joy, light satire, heavy sarcasm, wit, greed envy or lust. Or sloth.'

They couldn't kill the beauty of these leaves 'though, so here they are.