The rain, earlier just an optical aberration under a sky the colour of dusty sheets, graduated to falling mist and now, hisses on the conservatory roof, washes the leaves of the tired apple trees.
Birds have skulked to cover. Before 7am I was greeted by a fresh robin, dipping and chirping from the garden furniture on the lawn grazed by nervous, slow pigeons. Blue and great-tits searched crevices for insects and arachnids; blackbirds and jackdaws holed the unripe apples, spoiling them for all but the alcoholic wasps.
Dawn is still 5am by planetary motion, 6 by the clock, but summer is dissolving. This year's infants are entering adolescence. The cruel irradiating sun is filtered and the persistent blocking-high has welcomed Atlantic fronts at last.
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