Upon speculating whether a move to the southern hemisphere for six months would be one way of preserving the long days now fast becoming a wistful memory a bit of research revealed a slightly restricted choice of holiday home locations at fifty four south, the likely seasonal neighbours being some gauchos on the Tierra Del Fuego or the penguins of South Georgia. Although the spanish I picked up from Gustavo in Breaking Bad might be enough to ensure I didn’t spend too much time trying to entrar through the salida door the prospects for an english stranger affecting a questionable chilean accent in Argentina might make a diet of raw sardines at the arse end of the Falklands the price that has to be paid for the dream of late night sun so for this year at least it’s looking like I’m stuck in the dark with the rest of the northern half of humanity like Huis Clos with the lights turned out. It’s not over yet though. Although they may be selling out fast with no resupply due till spring there are a few evening glimpses of daylight left on the shelf so I will drink slowly and deeply, savouring every drop. Don’t need to go far, don’t need to go fast, just need to go out, to see the day through, to say don’t be away too long.