I look out the window, which is the old-fashioned wood type with two panels. Each panel has six single-pane glass lights. White paint is slathered on thickly, covering the cracks. Condensation gathers round the edges of each pane, the view is clear only in the top and centre third of each small pane. But through these windows-within-windows I can see the garden, lush and overgrown.

Under the grand gloomy old cedars, it is dry, despite the rain that ricochets off the large puddles in the gravel drive. The drive is a long tunnel between ancient oaks. Who planted them?

The kids gather acorns, then they try to ‘fix’ them, using sellotape and glue, because the hard smooth nut casings have disengaged from their knobbly textured little hats. They’ve come apart in the way that they must, but in doing so they no longer match the cartoon vision of an acorn.