Sometimes I find myself outside again, the grass wet, birds singing. All around me, scattered on the ground, building material, the cardboard boxes fridges came in, evergreen branches, old carpets, pieces of wood. Those houses we built, using anything we could find, sheltering places to nestle in, long tunnels leading nowhere. It was easy then to knock them down and build them up again if they got too dull, too complicated. They weren't designed to last.