There is a narrow strip of front garden behind iron railings in front of one of the 18th Century houses in Mount Sion. It has been sown with wild flowers, a small formal hedge, at the back. Charlock, poppies and thistles push through the railings and spill on to the pavement. Wildness imprisoned, you think.
Walking up the High Street I hear a snatch of conversation from two men sitting outside a cafe: "You have a false perspective on the state of England..." I hear no more. Football, I wonder? Probably. Or politics? Or geography?
In the Grove, I catch sight of what looks like an orange plastic flower in a corner between a gate post and a wall. It is a bracket fungus prompted into existence I suppose by the unseasonable weather.