Get out the OS one inch scale No.58, if that's the one we made most progress on last time we lacked direction. Spread it on the floor, I'll clear up the cups, the pepper vodka, the remains of the sweet and sour we had last night or the night before. How is it that the place you want is always on the edge of adjacent maps, one of which you haven't got, the other in need of refolding so paths are easier to spot? And wrestling the thing to see what PH means becomes a manoeuvre of unique agility. There are places here you'd never think you'd see. A pub where last orders were called last year, a stream sewn with trout, a church inside of which a women kneels devout, for all we know not one thing of her or why she prays in this church with spire, by a coffee stain. And so, to get our bearings, once we place the compass like yarrow stalks thrown randomly, the needle's a blur of magnetic rain pointing out our new direction; somewhere north-west of lost.