After some desultory gardening, I sit in the sun. The blackbirds are at it again. But this time a great tit with its two tone, electronic peeping joins in. Insects buzz.
"Fifty grams of yeast," says the white-coated, white-hatted baker at the Sainsbury bakery counter. "I'm getting to know your face every Sunday".
As we enter the Grove, rubber balls are bouncing everywhere, on the paths, on the grass. Children throw and kick them in the air, catch them, trap them with their feet. A feature of spring?