My window faces north. On winter mornings, the house’s shadow draws close as the low sun lights up the neighbours’ gardens. On the fence close by a wood pigeon has been keeping me company for an hour. It’s surveying its meal on the birdfeeder below. These London fences offer occasional drama. Suddenly a cat races along one; one squirrel chases another. Sometimes, and most surprisingly, a fox treads the narrow pathways of these fence tops. Look up and I see the sky, and even in winter, as now, there is enough greenery to cheer me. As I write a book, trees leaf and blossom and then the gardens turn bare again. Books are timeless, but the view from my window links me to the seasons.