Las Palmas is a bit tired this fine noon. She didn't sleep well last night. At around four in the morning she was woken up by, as I was told, a spectacular & beautiful thunderstorm. Did I step out onto the roof to watch it? No. Did I get up to close the window that has been wide open since I first looked at the room? No. I slept. At eight, when I put my feet down on the floor it wasn't with a thud or a thump but with a splash. This, Mr Eliot, regardless of how the world ends is how a morning sometimes begins