The village public address system has fallen silent. There used to be twice-weekly announcements over the PA telling of shop opening times,

I’m listening to a Czech version of Stupid Cupid Stop Picking On Me. I am a reluctant listener, but the builders’ radio is very loud.

The man who was making our new garden door phoned. He would deliver it tomorrow, mid-morning. He duly turned up at 6.30.

I’m sitting on a bench at the top terrace of the garden, with Fido beside me, his nose as restless as a class of ten year olds seconds befor