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He finds himself stirring from a restful sleep. As per usual, his body clock naturally

wakes him up at half past six, plus or minus two minutes either side. He realises his

shoulder is pressed against the novel that he was reading in bed. It's not the first time

he's scrunched up the pages and lost track of his progress through the book. All thanks

to his apparent inability to keep his eyes open once his head hits the pillar. Now though,

he feels re-energised. And on a sunny Saturday morning like this, there's only one thing

on Bob's mind. His allotment. He sits up and shuffles out of bed, trying not to wake

his darling wife. She prefers to wake for the morning alarm, set for quarter past seven

to wake herself up. But Bob is ever eager to start his day. It's a swift change of

clothes. But Jarmus make way for a cotton polo shirt and his favourite pair of shorts,

despite their years of wear and tear. Next, it's into the bathroom for a quick freshen

up. A splash of cold water on the face, a hasty brush of the teeth, and a gargle of mouthwash

to clear his throat. By 642, he's out the front door, with a strap-supported wicker

basket over his shoulder. Into the crisp, morning air. Bob loves to get out at this sort

of time, especially on weekends. Unlike on weekdays, where various commuters are leaving

the house early to beat the rush hour traffic. Bob finds himself alone as he wonders along

the footpath. The sun is beaming through a clear opening in the sky. The temperature,

...