There is a palpable easing in the air and the ebbing is balm indeed. The dark arts supertroop marched us right to the edge, bless 'em, and despite all the wobbling we were not lost.

Transformation, the goring death and laboured rebirth, is a messy business. And in the thick of it, as we be now and for months to come, still nothing is fixed. This rolling transition has many faces yet unseen and greater depths to terrify and dazzle us.

Oh that bridge of sighs between eclipses. Herewith the pointy end of this mad season, as we round the final bend and descend into the dark of the moon. We are not there yet, not nearly. These dark days are the eclipse slingshot drawing back, taut and shaking.