188.
Yet another fine autumn day in this little part of the world. Not that I got much chance to experience it though, stuck as I am in front of this computer earning a crust. Oh how I wish I were independently wealthy! I suppose I had better start playing the lottery. It was one of these days: highly productive, yet ultimately unsatisfying. Now, with the nights drawing in (it is already dark at 6.15pm), there is little that can be done in the evenings, other than sit in front of this machine or read a book - neither of which stretch the legs or fill the lungs with good, fresh Angus air. To top it all, I have to go over to Portugal again, a trip that will probably mean me missing Guy Fawkes' Night. I know, I ought not to complain about it, but the travelling does get tiresome, and I do get grief about my trips from Linda - especially since she has an essay due on 15 November, and me not being here means that she has to look after Liam on her own (unless her mother stays, which means she has even more work to do). Still, it can't be helped. Like most people, I have to work to earn the money to pay the bills. It just so happens that most of my work is based in Lisbon. Anyway, enough about that: let's talk about the view from my study - or, as it is called, the Workroom - (Larry Ahern did something similar a couple of days ago). I know that this is not, by any stretch of the imagination, an awe-inspiring vista: there are no mountains in sight, the sea is four miles away, no river passes nearby, no fields of wheat tapering away into an ancient wood. No, that would be far too distracting! What I have is the gable of the house next door, the neighbour's drying green, my old garden shed with the corrugated iron roof and a view of a beautiful old beech tree. Lovely.