A bright day. Crisp, clear, cornflower sky. One of those February days. You know the kind. Pre-pre-spring. Utterly still. No hint of Dudley, Eunice or Franklin. I have a regular walk. Up the hill, through the estate, into the small wood at the top of Streatham Common. A fragment of peace in London’s sprawling suburbia. And on this still morning, it soothes the soul.
An insistent great tit, its strident two-note call pinging around the canopy; a wren, machine-gun burst from a nearby bush; a black labrador, galumphing and panting; a robin, its silvery ribbon of song disguising the awkward reality of its intrinsic belligerence. Lovely stuff.
