So it's almost time for me to leave my little haven at Osbaldwick Lane and head to the big city. It's been a reassuring couple of days for me, York is small enough to walk around without a map and know you'll bump into a bus stop before too long, and big enough to feel pleasantly anonymous amongst the weekend crowds. That's just one of the things about this place, even the heavy set men hanging on street corners smoking cigarettes seem as quaint as the place itself as soon as they open their mouths.

Apart from a few moments of map sharing around the city walls and some cheeky banter with a delightful ginge lad at the bookshop (who charmed me silly with his encyclopedic knowledge of Samuel L Jackson's high school civil rights activism) its been quiet. Granny doesn't say so much; our interaction consists largely of her asking me if I like her best efforts at Yorkshire cuisine, and me saying 'oh yes, yes its great. Yeah it's lovely I said'. Let no one say that there is no place for white lies in this world. Of an evening we sit by the fake fire, made particularly convincing by the central heating forever set to MAX. No wander I feel alot like my elderly cat Flick here, constantly curling up and quietly drooling on the sofa, waking up only for food and the litter tray. She'd like it here, and she'd probably wouldn't even notice the long haul flight to get here in between her naps.

Okay, no more naps. Lets go.