I woke early to a fox barking somewhere beyond the hedge. Not alarming, more like a reminder that the night still had business of its own. I padded to the kitchen, kettle on, slippers barely tied, and began to wonder what I might bring to the garden swap.

A cutting of lemon balm, perhaps. A jar of my marmalade, though the peel’s a little thick this year. Then I thought about that odd jug I never use — someone might fancy it for dahlias. Or the cracked teacup, though I can’t quite let it go. By the time the kettle clicked, I was imagining trades for things nobody in their right mind would want: half a packet of clothes pegs, a tin lid that fits no tin, even the squeaky step from my staircase.

It struck me, just then, that this could all tumble into mischief. A swap without end, where we trade the untradeable. Still, I’ll find something.

Perhaps the fox wants in. I better check on the hedgehog.