Day 39, misty mountain hop

Walking to work this morning, looking down from the great height of Crookes over the city, showed the valley filled with mist.  The buildings visible, poking out of the roof level cloud.  There was frost on many rooftops around me, and the occasional patch of frost on the ground.  I walked in without a coat, just a t-shirt and long sleeved shirt.  My fingers were a bit chilly but I was warm enough.  If I'd worn a coat I'd have been pouring with sweat by the time I arrived at the office, the consequence of marching along as if in the Star Walk.

There ought to be danger money paid for braving the hazards of some of the road crossings.  Crookesmoor Road can be a rat-run of heavy-foot accelerating, indicator misusing, mobile phone obsessed, morons.  "Oh like, yeah, there's like a queue of traffic back from Broomhill yeah, I'll just take this shortcut, no sweat, out of the way loser pedestrian and don't mark my Discovery."  Not sure why they are so keen on mounting the pavement.  Obviously it's of the utmost importance to get young Labyrinth and Tredescantia to nursery school on time in the gigantic armoured bus of a car.

Moving on from the depthless yahoos I'm suddenly in the midst of trees and a hidden world.  Down the gennel that leads past what used to be Ralph's Dam.  There are beehives and trees, both caged in a large enclosure.  There are birds.  There are orange cats.  There is the sound of water dripping over the keys of a 1920s Corona typewriter.  There are gelatinous moonbeam bushes with crimson smiles holding improbably large kebabs.  There is the smell of coconuts and guava halves.  There are fly agaric mushrooms.  And there's a baboon.  Oh hang on, I see what's happened here.