Walking to work this rainy morning, I swore I was tripping. The greens were so, like, green, man. Fluorescent in their intensity, so vital, so vibrant, so green, as though I were wearing sunglasses with a colour-enhancing filter. The oak trees' wet, black bark coated in vivid green moss and lichen; the chestnut trees thrusting their outrageous clumps of creamy sex organs heavenwards, a Purcell trumpet sonata trilling in my ears... Tripping, I tell you. And that's exactly what I did, tripped over a bloody broken paving stone, the arrow that the council painted on it six months ago almost invisible now. Unlike the violent green stain on my knees.