sunflower, kite-flying, litter

The flower which is promised is one of those dark caramel coloured sunflowers.

George, a neighbour, has been a way for most of the summer. He doesn't quite recognise me and I have to look carefully to see if it is who I think it is. Eventually we relax, free of the worry that one or both of us might be greeting a stranger. "It's day for kite-flying," he says. The wind's been blowing since we came home." And my heart lifts at the thought of kites above the Grove.

A man in a blue pin-striped suit and tie comes out of his house and picks up a couple of paper bags that look as though they once contained fast food. He holds them by the tips of his fingers well away from his suit, and, as he walks through the Grove, deposits them in one of the smart black and gold litter bin.