London gardening. Bugloss weeps torn blue petals. New, secret frogs scatter, cover blown. Clean white guitar fingers scoured in aromatic earth. I leave this corner, fox and elves still secret here.

Fox on the lawn, bank holiday sun. Big old yawn, scratching his fleas.

On my way out to Hamleys, I’m shadowed by a pair of less-than-genius men with ear-pieces.