Daylight in the Garden of Good and Evil

Last night, stepping out of a dark pub, there for several hours, and several hours more and suddently blinking in the light. Disorientation. Have we stayed drinking till sunrise? The sky is a hue of blue you can't find in any paintshop. The Pepsi ad flashes 1146pm and 20 degrees celcius, for the Finns must always know how warm they are (or not) - there are thermometers outside cottage windows for this reason.

The light is mesmerising. It is enchanting. It is a pain in the arse when you have a hangover the next morning. The curtains cannot keep it out. It's light that can travel at right angles, round the corner of your street, into your building, past the crack of your curtains where it never quite meets the wall and into your brain.

Just as you fall asleep, accustomed to the light, or exhausted from building a cubby house of pillows round your head, the light brightens and the birds start that chirpy little singing that was so nice the first time you heard it (not like London, you said) but now drills into your head, wakes you with more force than the Nokia alarm you've got to used to ignoring. Soon you convince yourself you can hear the heavy footed hares hopping off the lawn into safety before the local drunks start to rise and commence their huddle at the Spar supermarket.