I stood outside at 8pm, listening to the applause and cheers, the air horns and the rattled tins, and - furher off - the sound of the sea, persistent and elusive as always.
Peering over the garden gate, I saw the pigeons scattering around the air, dancing with the woodsmoke just blossoming in the vaguely cold evening. They had dislodged themselves along the uproar and I wondered if they were confused more than alarmed. Maybe they thought this some new form of deterrent, a decentralisation of scarecrow technology?
I turned back to the guinea pig in my arms. Worlds apart, we move on with life amid life that moves on regardless of us.