A load of toad

Toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came to keep them company and listen to their talk.

I laze in bed, letting myself become more and more shocked by the escalating violence in Catalonia. Eventually I rouse myself, relight the fire, feed the animals, and pick the blueberries glistening on the bushes outside the bathroom window.

I rustle up toad in the hole for lunch, accompanied by some purple sprouting broccoli from the tunnel. It's a triumphant success and I eat it while listening to Sheila Dillon on the Food Programme talk about the increasing number of people eating alone. How poignant.

The rain subsides in the early afternoon, and I pick apples. The russets and a couple of the smaller eaters don't feel ready yet, but I get more than enough for the winter. I also collect a tray of cookers and reasonable number of pears. There's also a tray of damaged apples that I'll semi-process and freeze for later chutneys, pies, and sauces.

I head into town to visit Angus, bringing many gifts: bike lock, frozen rodents, clean clothes, leftover toad. I should have brought socks, for when it is time to go out he has only one.

We head to the Kebab Mahal, which (as usual) does not disappoint. He is defeated by the huge mound of lamb biryani, but still manages to squeeze in a chocolate baklava: "Too sweet" is the verdict.

Home again, stoke the fire, eat some apple purée with sour cream. Sip North Carolina moonshine.