Yesterday began with being towed backwards across Wiltshire. Then some intensive looking.
Best seen across a vacant lot:
The fullness required many hours, which we were unable to give.
There was something appropriate about the power socket handy for St. Barbara. In case her father needed it?
Finding Dewi Sant was like meeting an old friend…
It was a mistake to take an audio book. The tunnels must be the noisiest on the network: growl, roar, whistle and rattle in one excruciating go.
And there we were again: being towed backwards across Wiltshire.
… till May be out. So I took my jacket and woolly hat … (Click a thumbnail for gallery)
Well, the may was out, and very benign too,
though there is always something dispiriting about alighting here.
In a fine tradition of inspecting station roofs. I don’t think this is a sparrow’s, though.
Still not wearing a coat. In fact,
I removed my jumper.
Aaaah. I’m not sure why it made me so happy
to find essays on Bede in the 7 day loans category,
and Gregory of Tours,
and Notker the Stammerer. I’d like to think they know.
We walked, basking, through the barracks gardens,
and went on a long leg of domestic inspection.
I got out of the train into a time warp. I didn’t need a coat there either.
There was a certain amount of complaining going on today. I grumped round the grass with a struggling mower for the third time in a week (that’s how bad it was) and grumped at the slugs that have had a go at the baby rudbeckia. There was also a fair bit of Flufferscussing as by some inspiration she managed to deposit in any doorway I was about to walk through. She did some cussing of her own as I refused to let her sit on the sofa.
By the pond I found this poor tiny relic. Surely not a victim of predation, as even its little paws are still attached; maybe caught out by the icy weather we had a few weeks ago, and freeze-dried on its way to the water?
I settled for half an hour on the paving, pretending to be a tree stump, and watching for little plips and swirls.
The more fortunate newts were fossicking about; always difficult to know how many, but I saw one with a pale spine sprinkled with freckles, two with yellow or cream stripes all down their backs, one olive brown with leopard spots, one plain olive with a fine dark dorsal stripe, and one almost black and nearly invisible, plus a couple of juveniles.
Newts don’t seem to have red-eye problem so much as golden eye problem when the light reflects.
This is not what newts are meant to do. Assuming it was another corpse, I scooped it out, upon which it leapt into action and squiggled off my palm. If not moribund, it must be one of Nature’s eccentrics.
and possibly five pounds lighter, but at present it’s more a case of inward niggles, wondering which typo or howler has made it through the proof-reading. There has to be at least one. Also worrying slightly about the jokes.
Always risky, jokes. But once I had had the eating weasels rule pointed out to me, the Epistle of Barnabas just had to go in. And once the Epistle of Barnabas was in, one might as well have Warwick the Kingmaker as well (“Are you Edmund Mortimer? If not, have you got him?”) And then somehow The Sorrows of Werther crept into the general stirabout.
It may have been injudicious. I carefully remind myself: who cares what THEY think?
The rivers are well up with the continuing rainy weather, and my attention paused as I crossed this rushing water. It’s the first time I’ve seen one of these bridges with declarations by padlock all over them. As a symbol of personal love, I could only find it depressing, and it didn’t do anything for the line of the footbridge either.
Elsewhere, I watched a fairly senior cleric hit a two feet tall chocolate egg with a claw hammer. Hmm.
One has to get used to the curious juxtapositions of an ancient city. Hunting for boots yesterday, I found myself among seriously old timbers and crucks.
There was something slightly disturbing about these blind windows, long ago abandoned in the alterations and re-modellings of this and the buildings round about. But look: fourteenth or fifteenth century, they say, and one believes it.
The service, however, was rubbish. I left crossly and spent the money elsewhere. I have fuzzed out their advertising material to let the timber do the talking.
Well there we were, me at the kitchen table and Fluffers underneath it. I propped my elbows in a state of inaction, while Fluffers steadily pulled out her feathers.
I discovered a curious parallel urge to pull my own eyebrows out. So far I have resisted (mostly).
… disinclining me to appreciate small things as much as usual. Here, however, I may mention two pleasures of the senses:
A home-made swiss roll bulging with summer fruits, raspberry preserve, and double cream – a potent consolation in its way;
and the Falcon Heavy launch (hardly small, but very brief). My rational part has its doubts about the value of the programme, but seeing the two side boosters settling out of the sky on their tails was pure magic. Pity they lost the core, but perhaps a good thing to keep down corporate hubris.
Now I’m going to watch those boosters separate and land again (for the eleventh time or so). Oh the improbability of it.
lxxii : Crawl on the floor
Kneeling down and bowing before the oven: severe demands of the inanimate object, without any of the dubious pleasures of idolatry. I refused to offer it Pow, Woosh, Zip, Whizz or any other such pricey commodity, confining myself to elbow grease and savage abrasion with a steel scourer, until they had removed a judicious quantity of black. And skin.
It doesn’t do much for insomnia, though.