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Cabbage soup

After the torrential downpours in the last few days, followed by baking heat this weekend the world smelled strange yesterday evening, sort of like cabbage soup.  Today it was back to its normal aroma, though, rhubarb leaves and snail shells.

In the distance at the moment is an expanse of brilliantly lit cloud.  It always makes me imagine I'm living somewhere surrounded by snow-covered moutains, something more immovable than anything that exists in a city, even one with a nine hundred year old cathedral.  And somewhere out there climbers are ascending those slopes, crunching over smooth snow and ice.