Just incase you think I live a complete Utopian existance, I'll let you into a secret, I was up really early this morning to ensure I'd be at the DIY shop when the doors opened at 07.00 hours. As autumn draws in we've decided that windows, rather than holes, are required in the barn and we'd seen some lovely wooden, double glazed, two paned ones in the Brico Depot catalogue. As we left home our vision was somewhat impaired by the low cloud level - the hills looked as though they were wearing a fur lined trim (similar to the one my soon to be mother in law has on her new coat) to protect them from the chill morning air above. However, as we descended from our lofty location the sun was doing it's best to burn off the early morning mists and pockets of greenery began to emerge. I asked Mark whether he had ever watched 'Brigadoon' but he hadn't. If he had, he'd have known exactly where I was coming from. It's been a week since I last went to Macon and the changes in the landscape are startling. The Val Lamartinien has transformed with the introduction of browns from the ploughed fields and golds from the turning leaves slipping into the palette of colour from which this land is painted. But it was the greens that took my breath away. How many shades of green are there? With poets, creative writers and artists poised to descend on Les Cerisiers I got to thinking how they would paint or describe such a scene. I was completely lost for words and overwhelmed by the green before me. Green or more precisely descriptions of green is big business. as I perused the shelves of green paint in Brico I wondered whether there is a team of folk somewhere whose job it is to come up with new names for obscure shades: Peppermint Beach, Crushed Pine, Moorland Magic. If there is job out there for someone with a flare for making up names for new colours I think I'd like a go at it. Job offers to this site please.