Late but welcome are the baby courgettes, which I am cutting, the fruit no longer than the flowers, both fruit and flowers sliced finely for a salad or quickly jumped about in the frying pan.
On the blue plastic cover of the swimming pool, which I pass on my way to the vegetable garden, stands a pigeon, its feet in a puddle left by the rain of a couple of days ago. As I watch, it bows its head and ups its tail to drink from the same puddle, repeatedly and with apparent enthusiasm.
Chervil and chives share a pot in the garden where we sit. Every couple of weeks, I cut both to make an omelette aux fines herbes. Had they been visiting, Sherlock Holmes might have observed today: "You will note, Watson, that they have not eaten an omelette aux fines herbes in this house in the past two weeks."