Every day at half past four a Canada goose wanders past my garden gate. I see her in my window as I'm doing the washing up.
It's a reassuringly regular routine. As the minute hand clicks into place at the six, there she goes, waddling complacently along from right to left, beak forward, belly proud.
Only once in the last six months has she not appeared, when I went down to the bottom of the garden and waited at the vegetable patch. She didn't come by that day.
Since then, I have resumed my previous position, drying the dishes with the wildfowl teatowel, and everything has returned to normal.
I've promised myself I won't disrupt the routine again. I don't want to drive my distinguished friend away.
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