A Sunday in November, dark with the dead light of a defeated day but at the foot of the garden my tree is rich in dazzling golds, yellows and reds that trump the leaden sky. I've spent the day oscillating between Yeats and Wilde punctuated by spells of penny whistle playing. The high breathy notes no doubt pierce the brick of my terraced walls, may grate upon the nerves of my neighbours, if they can hear it over the bellowing and the crash of upturned furniture and hurled plates, their incessant marital percussion section.