The world from my window

I was making the rounds of my pelargoniums out on the terrace this morning. For the past few days, there has been the tell-tale sign of cat trying to scrabble in amongst the plants. But now, with plenty of souvlaki skewers sticking up bottomwards and a load of pepper put around the outside, it seems the cats have given the flowers a wide berth. And then, today, deep within the terracotta planter I discovered this. Here, have a closer look. It was nestling in an egg-shaped indentation in the soil between two plants. But there were no visible signs of whatever it was that put it there. No broken stems, no disturbed soil, nothing. Just a big, fat, hard, speckled egg. Mr Grigg put it in water to see if it floated. It didn't. It must be fresh then. Unless it's ceramic. But it doesn't feel like it. It's too big and white to have come from any of the hens next door. And, besides, they've never, ever ventured over the wall. And it's too small ...

And the cats patrol the rubbish skips on the corner of our road. In among the poo bags, the vegetable peelings and a fluorescent tube a kitten could use as a lightsaber, they might find a fish head or two. At every skip and wheelie bin, there is a cat, guarding its territory. A large ginger one, a tortoiseshell which is surprisingly fluffy given the climate, copious black and white ones and the odd fat tabby.  One with a stubby tail, another with a weird eye. Nobody wants them. And in the valley, the dogs bark, setting off a chain reaction among hounds and mongrels chained up outside what look more like shacks  than houses. The geese start to honk and turkeys scuttle through the olive groves. In the village square, a cheeky golden Labrador is young, footloose and fancy-free. His Alsatian-cross-collie paramour, with looks only a mother could love, waggles her tail at him in flirtatious abandon as they weave in and out of each other through the na...