We’ve been dog sitting in the East Midlands — the heat waves are over. All the municipal grass and verges are dead and the leaves are beginning to fall.

In towns we sit on a bench and look at the flowers. Bruce sniffs out abandoned take-aways and random chips, which he’s not allowed to eat.

We visit the landmarks — look at the new roof of the art gallery, sniff all the bins, and visit the parish church — no peregrines today.

But there are pigeons around the Rotary Club’s pointed clock tower,

They are not impressed by Bruce and don’t even flutter.

Now it is definitely raining and the buses don’t go in our direction.

He misses a nice smelly hedgerow and a rabbity ditch, but most of all he misses the football, sitting on the sofa with the ones he loves.

Still, home and dry and rain has stopped play in the test match (there’s only so much cricket a dog can stand) and Chelsea are playing Brighton on the tiny telly and Granny has brought his bed in, so we can all watch in comfort.