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Pip's turning the tables already, though her Dad has had to help with the legs.

I may be wrong, but I think we got some very distant pig noises there.

The tea-room's dialled it down, too, and we've had Glenn Miller instead of the usual Vera Lynn. A legacy of Natasha's subversive shift, perhaps? Or business as usual? I can't remember, and I'm not sure if I care.

It's a good thing that I'm not easily disappointed, but I can't help noticing that we've had, so far, more broken tables than cows.

We're outside at last. Birdsong, ragwort, cinnabar moths and, perhaps, worms. Could be anywhere, really.

Meanwhile, Brad and Mia seem woefully undereducated on the matter of inheritance tax.

Pip's just reminded me that I can't stop thinking about Donald Trump. I just hope that doesn't mean what she thinks it does.

Ooh-ooh-ooh, pigeons!

That's it, then. The builders have fallen silent, we never got to hear the cows, and I'm really not sure about the pigs.

Still, you can't have everything.