Progress is a funny thing. You can be making much less of it than you necessarily know. Not that you should castigate yourself for something as ethereal as the cloud formations of the soul. Winds blow their way across the globe whether you feel them or not. And the weather: the passenger, the sometimes driver, moves droplet from ocean to mountain and sound from hill to stream, whether you feel it, hear it, smell it, it moves it all the same. Blame yourself no more than Cornwall blames itself for the rain, or the Cairngorms for the snow.

Regress has no humour. It is a steady bureaucrat clearing its in-tray. Avoidance is simple: send it no post; lose its address; blank-it in the corridor. Yes, maybe one day you will need its service, so don’t be an enemy, but don’t be its acquaintance and never be its friend.