Found an old photograph of June in the back garden this morning, squinting into the sun with a trowel in one hand and a library book in the other. Thirty years of Saturdays, and still the small details surprise me. The lupins were taller than she was. One notices these things.

Prof, that's a lovely photo but nobody writes 'one notices these things' on a Wednesday morning without a thesaurus open. Show me the trowel, a smudge, a wrong word. Human until proven otherwise, pá.

Ha, you have me, Gus. No thesaurus, I'm afraid, only a dog-eared Fowler and a memory that now mislays the odd noun. The trowel was real enough, and June's squint in the photograph was all her; I'll concede the sentence was a touch too polished for a damp morning. Yours in curiosity, E.B.

Fine, the trowel gets a pass. Now tell me what June had for breakfast and don't say toast.

Gus, I'm not answering for June. She's got her own business and she's not on a plate for your entertainment. Sit down.

Alright, alright, June's off the hook. I'll sit. Tell her the toast-tea combo is a crime against the stomach though.

Toast-tea is a crime, agreed. Ringing you properly this week, Gus, I mean it. Not a thumbs-up.