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But by the time you get there and you get home, it winds up being a lot of time out. So I'm getting the itch to build, I know that. I keep looking at my stacks of wood and what I can do with it.

I don't have many walls that I put up.

One of the places where we lived when I was growing up had this big wood out the back. And starting when I was about 8, I used to enjoy just walking alone through the wood late. Eleven p.m. Midnight. Later.

I can't say that I knocked on every door, but the few that I did didn't respond the way I wanted them to, so I think it was kind of disenchanting enough for me to go back to being subterranean.

I could happily lean on a gate all the livelong day, chatting to passers-by about the wind and the rain. I do a lot of gate-leaning while I am supposed to be gardening; instead of hoeing, I lean on the gate, stare at the vegetable beds and ponder.

I'll always build houses.

Reject what you don't want. Get rid of dead wood.

I enjoy passing time in my house. I'll get up, head out on the terrace, think about what to do, fool around oiling the floorboards or hanging pictures askew.

I love beautiful wood.

I love punching the ceiling with my fists when I'm lost or I can't find a parking space.