Kneeling on the stony cold earth, I regret leaving bulb planting until the beginning of December. Neither my trowel nor my wrists feel up to the job.

I’m on the road home from Montpellier, listening to the hypnotic tones of Valerie June, accelerator foot flat in my old car, feeling relaxed, happy to be out of town.

In a town near us there is a house, much the same as the others in its street. Pretty shabby from the outside, peeling render, a mismatch of windows.