Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth

Banana and a blueberry muffin (gobbled on bus).

Edinburgh is something of a graveyard of umbrellas this evening; Hurricane Katia's tendrils have twisted more than a few beyond usefulness. The trees too, seem rather bothered by all this wind. Some ominous creaking and such persuaded me to give most a wide berth. The same is true of scaffolding. But then I've always done my best to avoid that ever since I listened to a Dick Francis book tape in which a falling pole was the murderers' instrument of death...