A childish inability to leave a pun by the roadside, produces some odd midnight thoughts. The French for a sandwich man (one of those who walk the streets with wooden panels displaying advertisments to the front and back) is, I discover, un homme sandwich, which to an English ear sounds like what the French call a sandwich au jambon.
Birdsong trills and prickles in my ears as I walk through the Grove this afternoon in a wind which scatters loose raindrops.
Satisfaction comes from the smallest events. While in the High Street, I find an unposted letter in my pocket. Must remember to post it on my way home, I tell myself; and then discover that I am standing next to a letter box.