Sitting in the garden I watch the light of the setting sun catch the feathers of this pigeon, which I manage to photograph it as it decides to leave.
Every morning I can tell the time by the sound of the newspaper crunching through the letter box, the door of the house opposite opening so that that someone can take in the milk, and the sound of my alarm clock, which is switched off, but cannot pass the hour at which it is set, (7. 15) in complete silence, and gives a little click to acknowledge its function.
Another anniversary. At this time of year the berries of some rowan trees which I pass seem overnight to have turned a rusty red. And I reflect, as ever, that the colour seems to be a token of winter before the summer has truly got under way.