The mad wind blows on.
Still no sign of winter in the normal sense. Next to no frost, let alone snow - just months of endless gales.
Clouds scud by like they have a date they just mustn't miss; rubbish careens through the streets, dancing free while the city's giant wheelie bins roar their anguish to the skies.
At night the wind resonates in a thousand screaming nooks on every street, bangs and rattles a hundred windows. This town is being played like a vast, ill-tuned instrument.
Again I'm up at four a.m., and I can't even tell if I'm an insomniac or just a light sleeper.