I knew a woman called Aurora once. Aurora Borialis sounds like Aurora of the trees. There she is, in all her splendour, swinging like Mrs Tarzan from vine to vine, bellowing how beautiful she is as she goes. And I, a weedy pink mortal, come out of my tent, awakened by the noise, but I see nothing except the disturbed leaves flickering down from on high. Something is happening, but I don't know what it is. Yes my name is Mr Jones.