The wind was bitter today. Here by the sea the gusts are sharp, cutting through wool, cotton and jean and until they have chilled every 200 bones in your body. This is wind from which you cannot hide. It is a sour, painful experience. A polar easterly which has wrapped itself round icebergs and dressed in frost. It is not yet a gale but blasts and blows us across the town. It lingers in our pockets and in the nape of our neck like an unwanted kiss from a sweaty-palmed man.