I still haven't done those blasted fruit canes. Each day I stand at the french windows, invariably with a cup of tea in hand, and survey my beloved garden. The weather changes; sometimes mist, sometimes rain, sometimes clear blue skies and the ghostly appearance of the moon during the daytime, sometimes dawn, sometimes noon. Always full with birds; thrushes, blackbirds, flocks of starlings, two collared doves, recently blue tits, one delightful, tiny wren, one territorial robin, millions of resident sparrows. An occasional fox. Maybe I'll do the fruit canes tomorrow. But I'm off to Sheffield tomorrow, maybe I'll do the canes in the afternoon.