Barely six. A cup of coffee on the terrace. The two 'angels' hurtling across the lawn in pursuit of a worm hunting thrush. Bob and Sophie have learnt to be neighbour sparingly silent this early in the morning. A trait that doesn't hold true at any other time of day.
The family of Blue Tits nesting in the elder trees are out in force. They squabble happily among the roses. The grey-blue young barely heavy enough to bend the rose boughs . They sway back and fro like aspiring acrobats, clattering with delight . A pre-dawn feast of greenfly. Pure sunniness. I was going to spray the roses but now I won't.
A quick stop at the cash machine on the corner of the Market Square. I was sure I'd been on Sunday. Maybe not. At the cafe under the arcades Bob and Sophie sit peering hopefully up at the waitress. Five and a half months old and they've already perfected the '' this is the only food I'll get all day '' routine. The shared half croissant is consumed to the sound of lip smacking.
Home via the bakers and newsagent . 'The font ' asks me if I know there's a trail of partly shredded twenty €uro notes in the garden. We both turn and look at Sophie.