To my joy, some enormous bird has decided to drop three enormous portions of dung at a clever angle right onto the window of my office. I can imagine the winged crusader accelerate towards the wall and then veer steeply upwards, a fighter plane of flesh and blood, releasing the deadly load at precisely the right moment. The spots, shaped like spruce trees, dominate the view, spreading their undecipherable message like impressionistic strokes of grey paint. Or like those silly splashes of ink that psychologists still sometimes use in personality tests. Are the elements trying to tell me something?