Windows in urgent need of replacement, the property survey reported on our house when we moved in 15 years ago. Now at last we’ve signed on the dotted line for a new set in the lounge. For nearly a decade and a half, the trio of ageing windowpanes have sharpened draughts to a ninja blade, made the fire perpetually hungry. Newspapers stuffed into the ill-fitting panels do a sterling job but there comes a point: installation will be on 20 June. “You’ll not hear the road any more,” the salesman had promised. Good. Heavy tractors pass like earth tremors. But what else won’t we hear? The other night during the Eurovision song contest, a familiar descending tinkle of melodious notes made me hit the remote-control mute button. The robin was singing in the apple tree