Baby tomatoes asleep on the vine, roots tucked into cosy compost at the cherry-brick house on the corner of Clarence. Kate Rusby’s Underneath the Stars filled the ceiling space of our warm-bread kitchen observatoire. A burgundy town bike propped against the wall in the paved side yard, where our cat squeezed himself through the trellis like piped icing. I rode to work as the sun clocked off and home in the mornings, clattering past Four Lane Ends metal mudguards menacing the