I drove to school listening to Radio 4 on my phone and feeling shame that I know nothing about Bertold Brecht. I drove back listening to a woman talking about how she and her husband took the mutual decision to have an open marriage.  I don't know much about that, only that it may possibly, or possibly not, end in tears.

Back at the moulin the wind had stopped and the sun felt warm.  
I chided the Grey Cat as she dug a hole in the potager.  She looked at me in an accusatory way and then lay down in it as if she were a chicken and went to sleep.