This afternoon I attentively observed what are regular winter scenes: smoke rising from chimneys in the cosy pink twilight, prim old ladies briskly walking their minituare, manicured dogs (jacketed in the latest styles of canine coats) and shoppers pushing their trolleys against the icy wind to make it across the car park to the safety of their automobiles. The afternoon smelt like chopped wood, and these sights and smells filled me with melancholy, mostly because I knew that afternoons like this are strictly seasonal and are coming to an end. In the warmer months ahead they expand and become more languid. In winter, afternoons morph into silent, ominous evenings quickly, the way a black gloved murderer's hand smothers the mouth of his innocent victim.