"Do want any sausages, love?" says a woman in the supermarket, as she draws level with me, her trolley before her. Never having seen her before, I don't know how to reply. Then the question is explained by a man, who must be her husband, overtaking me on the other side. He doesn't want any, but I thought, maybe I do.
In the rain I look down on the leaves of a miniature, red acer, where beaded rain drops are dispersed. Somewhat paled, the colour of the leaves comes through the drops, while patches of light are reflected off their convex surfaces.
I cut chives and chop the fine stems as a garnish for boiled potatoes to go with this evening's grilled plaice.