The bright yellow ball has disappeared and rain peppers my window. Outside, on the harbour, the swans appear to have lost a cygnet, and are down to only two. Inside, my desk is covered in mountains of paperwork. Some of it is hand-scrawled, some typed; all of it demands some sort of attention. Among it all is a little too much correspondence from NHS Tayside for my liking. I can't choose what letters I receive, just the ones I reply to.