The space I call my office, (a room crammed with anything but space), leans out to a view where the green finch and house sparrows hide. They dart from cover into our small front garden. Their quarrelling is incessant, they chase in gangs, often fleeing in flocks as the raptor approach. In the secret back garden we have two feeders, named a) and b) ( I really need to work on names), they act as ‘fly-throw’ for every small feeding bird in the village. Today I counted the first coal tits, bossed by sparrows but holding their own until overwhelming numbers chased them from view. I’m staring Seasonal Adjustment Syndrome in the face. It looms like the brink of a storm on a grey horizon. Thank goodness for the hedge and the feeders and the memory of clothes drying in summer on the washing line.