The car park at Sainsbury's.
Like a benign whirlwind, Plutarch junior descends on Tunbridge Wells, where, equipped with spade and fork, rake and wheelbarrow, he clears the winter dross from the vegetable garden, leaving the easy work of sowing, hoeing and harvesting for me during the coming summer. Of that summer people are already saying, as they said last year and the year before, it's going to be hot one.
As I look out of the window this morning, I see, instead of the ubiquitous wood pigeons, two ring doves and then a third. They flutter down on to the road and occupy themselves with something on the tarmac interesting, but invisible to me. Only when a car approaches do they flutter up into the lime tree and on to the roof of the house opposite. There, they watch, stretching their necks forward and tilting their heads sideways to see better, for the road to be clear before descending to peck again at their strange breakfast.
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