Pinball weather: bouncing from hot to chill. Under the construction of the polytunnel, jumpers are off, regardless. A scarf lollops, gently, in the breeze, the fringe of it slumped from a garden chair.
Close by, the rotary line flouts its load, from fast drying fleece to saggy cotton, on poles of a jaunty angle.
A sort of mud dust drifts over us. We pull melodrama faces: anyone watching would immediately identify this difficult level of effort.
Three bays of awkward Perspex curve up and over inside the frame. It is not rain but time that ends the work.
A quick brush of teeth and we are out of the door, armed with kick pads, ready to teach.