Turning earth for a raspberry patch uncovers two lizards and a pre-decimalised penny. First lizard scarpers under a rock pile. Second lizard runs over my hands; it has a bright orange blaze on its belly. I let it back to the earth. I love how lizards freeze on discovery. It seems that they assess the situation calmly, in a smartly proactive reptilian way. Mr rubs dirt from the coin. 1937, he reveals. George VI. The sun, unnoticed in the excitement, has simmered out, is blistering the sky. Girl arrives, takes Baby to the garden. She snaps Rabbit into a harness, takes him for a walk. Dog follows. Baby follows, wearing a sun suit and one shoe. Mr calls out that he has discovered a slow worm, I see it sss-ing across the drive, in its precious gold skin. What an extraordinary day, I comment, and quite forget to plant the raspberries.