I was almost leaping, bounding through the deepest meadow since '93, not even caring when the thistles came up to greet me, or when spiders were poised to attack. I wasn't happy, though, simply content with capturing crickets behind shutters, even getting a bit too close to them. The way the hills rose in great, colourful mounds made me swoon and remember, then remembering to swoon over Fishers Lane, over dimly lit sparklers over fine cushions which held my every infantile dream. I would only stop day-dreaming to nod at the passing hearses, look to the barren patches where trees once stood,