I catch a pigeon guiding London visitors to the Queen.
In the Pantiles a young woman poses by one of our smart black and gold rubbish bins. She leans towards it spreading her arms wide and opens her mouth in a silent scream.
The blackbirds and their offspring nesting in the hedge are for the most part quiet during the day. We hear the young birds chirping in the the evening while their parents bring them a constant supply of filleted worms. The nest and its contents survived both my neighbour's hedge clipping, and, despite my firm instructions, the work of our own hedger, who was supposed to, but didn't, give the nesting place a wide berth. In previous years the blackbird nestlings in our garden have fledged during the men's singles final at Wimbledon. Could it happen again?