I've drunk a lot of tea and I'm feeling free, as Ian Hunter never quite sang. One week into my season of writing and there's not much more to show for it than a pile of teabags in the compost caddy and a vague aura of tranquility, though I'm enjoying the pre-breakfast walks and big rollneck jumpers of the new regime. I never did get used to the filtered air and unseasonal temperature of a mechanically-ventilated office.