Pigeons in the air above The High Street.

A former neighbour greets me in The Grove.  His young family must be growing up. They moved about 10 years ago to the opposite end of Tunbridge Wells. He himself looks older and leaner. "Just brought my eldest down to his old stomping ground." "He's not feeling nostalgic," I say. "Not really. Just a distant memory."

Summer pudding - a compote of soft,seasonal fruits melded with slices of bread and moulded  in a pudding basin in the fridge - used not to attract me when I was younger. Now it does. Last night at a meal with a neighbour, it glistens with juices  on the plate on to which it is has been turned, and overwhelms the taste buds with an explosion of berry flavours. "Berry flavours", is the sort of thing people say about wine. This is better than wine.