It’s too late to look away.

He seems surprised to see me. Well, I doubt he was expecting to find someone standing in front of his house, gawping while their dog takes a dump. It’s barely even light.

‘Morning.’ I smile politely.

There’s a brief moment when I think he might ignore me, but then he gives a curt nod of his head. ‘Morning.’

He looks both grumpy and embarrassed to be caught in his dressing gown and slippers, and pulls the belt tighter.

‘I was just waiting for my dog.’ Feeling the need to explain, I gesture towards Harry.

‘I hope you’re going to clear that up,’ he replies gruffly.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Because I trod in some the other day – right mess it was.’

‘Oh dear, that’s awful.’

‘Not the dog’s fault, mind. It’s the owner’s.’ He stares at me accusingly and I feel myself wither under his stony glare.

‘Totally inconsiderate.’ I nod in agreement, and then turn my attention back to Harry, who seems to have one thing in common with my ex-husband in the extortionate amount of time he takes to go to the bathroom; David used to be in there for hours.

‘By ’eck, you’re hungry buggers, aren’t you?’

The old man’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn back to see him pull a packet of birdseed out of his dressing gown pocket. Talking to himself, he carefully unwraps the packet and unscrews the lids from the empty bird feeders hanging from various hooks around the patio. I notice they’re made out of plastic bottles.

‘Do you make those?’

He looks up from filling them with seeds, to cock his hand behind his ear. ‘What was that?’

‘The bird feeders,’ I repeat.

He looks at me as if I’m a complete moron. ‘Aye, it’s called recycling.’ Then, seeing my expression, he adds, ‘You young ones think you invented it.’

Despite his grumpiness, I can’t help but smile.

He resumes filling them up and I turn back to Harry. Having finally finished, he’s kicking up clods of grass verge in an attempt to bury it, and I quickly clear it up before the old man has cause to complain.

‘You put two holes here, see . . .’

I look up to see that he’s taken down one of the bottles and has brought it over to show me, holding it over the low wall that separates his small patio from the path.

‘. . . and push a stick through the holes. There should be a couple of inches left on either side for the perches.’

‘Wow, yes – how clever.’ I smile, fascinated. It really is quite ingenious.

‘Then just cut a feeding hole with some scissors.’ He gestures with his thumb. ‘You have to be careful not to leave any jagged edges, as their feathers can get caught. You need to make them as smooth as possible.’

‘And do the birds really come?’

‘Oh, aye, you get all sorts, especially this time of year. Sparrows . . . blue tits . . . chaffinches . . . nuthatches . . . Even got myself a family of robins. The ones that don’t migrate need feeding up to survive the winter.’