Oh, My Days!

 There were five eggs, there are four babies. There might be a fifth baby hiding in there somewhere, maybe behind the electric flex, but we are definitely kicking off Swallow Baby Season with four. I like to think they are singing opera - O Mio Bambino Caro, maybe. Or ‘March of the Toreadors.’ As baby birds go, swallows are relatively quiet on the chirpy cheeping front. Unlike the wagtail babies who are increasing in volume on the hour, it seems. I did hang out of the landing window the other day, to see if I could count them but the wisteria foliage has completely covered the nest. I’m going to hazard a guess, based on sheer loudness, that there are seventeen of them. At least.  Andy took Nell out for her walk today, giving me a bit of uninterrupted study time. Here she is, frolicking in the buttercup meadow: Plum crumble for tea. Nice. 

  On Monday, I made the silly mistake of allowing myself to drift back in time and chew over old events and memories. Not the nice ones that make you think, ‘Awwww, that was lovely!’ but the ones that have left scars or have scabbed over. And we all know there’s nothing more satisfying than picking at a scab when we are feeling sorry for ourselves, right? Psychological self-harm I think it’s called, and it is wholly unnecessary and a bit insane.  Anyway, I allowed myself to wallow but only for a couple of hours before I told myself that looking over the past is completely pointless and all it does is make one fret, which is also pointless. Can’t change what’s happened - move on. Look forward, live in the now. That’s the key to peace, calm and happiness. Therefore, I meditated, wrote  in my diary, went to bed. Slept. Had a weird dream about a boat. Tuesday was a different kettle of lobster because a) I had a day out with my daughter - spot of shopping, spot of lunch, lots ...

 The baby swallows have arrived! A couple of days ago, I found half an eggshell on the laundry floor and the same day the parent swallows started zooming in and out, collecting beaks full of bugs for their new babies.  Here is the eggshell, next to a 5 pence piece for scale. And then I thought that the size of an English 5 pence would possibly mean nothing to readers outside the UK so I popped half a walnut on t’other side for greater clarity, walnuts being a universal indicator of size and all that. Did you know that a cat’s brain is the same size as a walnut? See? It’s all in the walnut perspective. But can you imagine the size of baby bird that emerged from such a tiny egg? And that, in a mere few weeks, they will have grown into adult birds big enough to tackle the thousands of miles flight back to Africa? It’s madly wonderful!  Before I slide into prose of complete drivel, I am also pleased to report that the wagtail neighbours in the wisteria have also hatched their...

  Dear BBC, I am confused as to why you have scheduled four and a half hours (270 minutes) to the coverage of today’s FA Cup Final between one team and another team, I don’t know which and, quite frankly, I have FA interest.  It is my understanding that a football match lasts for 90 minutes. I appreciate there needs to be a break of 15 minutes half way through for eating orange segments, having a swig of Lucozade and making a quick visit to the tinkle shop (although, to be honest, if healthy young men can’t hold their urine for a couple of hours, they probably need to seek medical advice.) I also understand it takes, oh, around 15 minutes(?) tops to settle the audience nicely in their seats. This takes the event timings to two hours (120 minutes).  Already, I can hear you revving up to inform me about the need to factor in ‘extra’ time in case the match ends in a ‘draw.’ (I can use technical terms - I’m not a complete ignoramus). However, here’s an idea to decide a winner...

 I tend not to read the news in depth these days - it’s an activity full of moil and toil, what with the state of the world and the people in it, so I find the best I can do is give it a cursory glance, if that even. I really can’t be doing with all the drama and gloom. All it does is encourage worries and anxieties, and where’s the value in that? However, I do keep an eye open for happy stories and occasionally one sneaks past the doom mongers. Like this one: Meet Gertrude. She lives in a wildlife park in Norfolk and, at the grand age of 70 (!!) has just laid her first egg! How about that? Apparently, flamingoes generally live for around 40 years so at 70 she is already admirable in my books, but 70 years old and laying her first egg?? Well, she has become my new best inspirational icon.  Lovely Gertrude - living proof that you are never too old to do anything and even us old birds have the potential to surprise! 

 When I take Nell for a canal walk in town, I park in Morrison’s car park because a) it is free and b) we walk from there and through the small housing estate which backs onto the canal which gives Nell exposure to passing traffic and, after a few months of doing this, she no longer attempts to chase and bark at cars, vans, motorbikes, lorries, whatever. Training job done. Also, the walk to the canal is a mere ten minutes - fifteen if there are lots of exciting things to stop and sniff along the way, sixteen if a poo stop is required.  Anyway, this morning, Nell and I parked up in Morrison’s and, as usual, as we walked through the car park, Nell did her on-the-lead party trick which is to make vertical leaps two or three feet into the air, like some sort of deranged furry space hopper. I don’t know why she does this: excitement at being out on a walk, some psychological/ behavioural/ mental defect, or just because she can? Who knows? I like to think she is exhibiting sheer joi...

What would you do if, like me, you are prone to living a life of half-cocked habits? You know, when you become so fired up by the New Best Thing that you buy all the books, sign up to all the websites, newsletters and courses, and then you start feeling trapped and hemmed in, and your interest fizzles/wanes/ dies a slow and inevitable death, and a lot of eye-rolling ensues from those around you. Because this is how a lot of my life has been and sometimes, when this happens, it makes me doubt my intuition. On the plus side, I’ve learned a lot of stuff along the way, but it’s been stuff without a final outcome. But maybe we don’t need a final outcome? Maybe learning about lots of stuff is an outcome in itself? This ridiculous notion of ‘target setting’ and ‘goal achievement’ that the modern world seems so keen to run on doesn’t help. However, I am on the periphery of the modern world, being a retired hermit now, so targets and goals are no longer a part of my life vocabulary.  I also...

 Some days I know what I’m going to do, and some days I don’t. Today was a ‘don’t know’ day which had the potential to become mediocre and dull BUT just before lunchtime I had a rush of the proactives, took myself off to the greenhouse and sowed some runner beans, marigolds, sage and tarragon, and watered my hundreds of little flower seedlings. The greenhouse is filling up now so I can’t sow anything else, not in there anyway.  After lunch I decided it would be a REALLY good idea to sort out the shed at the top of the garden. It’s a big shed so, theoretically, it should be easy to walk in there and find exactly what one wants when one wants it. However, this has become not the case of late and the shed resembles what I call a clutter bucket, and for someone who likes a bit of order in her life, this will NOT do.  And what with the return of the sunshine, I decided to empty the contents of the shed onto the grass, give the empty shed a jolly good sweep out, evict a few spi...

The rain returned last night and Nell and I were drizzled on this morning when we went for our walk BUT what could be a more cheering sight when the weather is dull than this: Yes, once again the wisteria has put on a fine show for us! It smells delicious, too. The wagtails have been wise in their chosen nesting site this year. (And talking to my neighbour a few days ago, she reported that a second pair of wagtails have built a nest up the other end of the wisteria, too!) The wisteria is now branching outwards away from the house and it’s possible to stand beneath it and not get wet in the rain. I’ve thought about installing a pergola across from the house to the laundry for it to twirl itself around but that would mean the swallows wouldn’t be able to access their nest. And that would be very sad. Mummy Swallow is now sitting on five eggs, so we should have some babies in the first week of June.  Yesterday, Andy built a mini pergola for the Rambling Rector to, well, ramble around....

 When I wake up I always look out of the window to spot the First Bird of the Day. It’s a weird habit, I know. I like to think the habit as having meditative qualities, setting me up with a gentle, thoughtful start to the day. That’s my excuse, anyway. Usually, First Bird of the Day at this time of year is a rook, a crow, a blackbird or a swallow. Less often it will be a robin, a wren, a sparrow, a tit of some description, possibly a finch (chaff/green) or a goose.  But this morning, a bloomin’ mahoosive grey heron hove into view!  One of these! Not this specific one, obviously, because my pyjamas do not have a handy pocket for a phone/camera or other useful photographic device. But it was a grey heron and it glided (glid? Gload?) across the field in front of me like a stately galleon heading out to sea in a light breeze.  Nell and I sometimes see a grey heron or two when we go for walks along the canal. They sit on the towpath, they spot your approach, they sit a bi...

 Today, I went to my favourite independent garden centre and bought this for the Floramorium… …a little stone Peter Rabbit, complete with bunch of carrots. There were three bunny ornaments from which to choose but the other two were wearing little dresses, which seemed ludicrous. Peter Rabbit came home with me, then, and is now perched above where Sidney is laid to rest.  I purchased, also, eight lavender plants for the border beneath the front window, a penknife, some hormone rooting gel, and two ‘cor-blimey-how-much?’ black metal rose supports for the rambling roses ‘Shropshire Lass’ and ‘Mortimer Sackler’. It was touch and go whether they would fit into my tiny red car to bring them home but I was determined not to be beaten and with a bit of wriggling and jiggling I was saved the embarrassment of having to return to the pay desk and ask for a refund. ‘Rambling Rector’ who sits between the other two roses has, however, gone beyond being supported by a standard frame and nee...

 Well, not ‘new’ new because, as has been pointed out to me, I tend to wax and wane when it comes to The Next Amazing Thing I Want To Learn About, so it was probably sensible of Lord Malarkey to buy this… …a pre-loved (or as it used to be called in Ye Olden Days ‘second-hand’) microscope with a set of pre-loaded microscope slides to get me started in exploring the world of teeny-tiny things unseen by the human eye.  I can’t remember what it was that made me think it, but a while ago, something clearly piqued my interest and I said to Andy, ‘You can buy me a microscope for my next birthday or Christmas, if you like,’ thinking both dates would be far enough into the future that I’d forget what I said and a surprise would ensue on the day. However, he decided to jump the gun and gave me this as a random day gift a couple of weeks ago. Of course, this means I now have to think of something else ready for when he says, ‘So, what would you like for your birthday/ Christmas?’ which i...

I’ve no idea why, but this morning I was gripped with the urge to sort through the Christmas decorations. They live in the cupboard under the stairs and every time I open the door, the incumbent mess tries to escape. It’s like some sort of creepy, festive cupboard monster living there, and today I decided it needed sorting out. It didn’t take long once I decided to be ruthless, and Nell helped. One full bin bag of Christmas tat = half an empty under stairs cupboard - hurrah!  Bolstered by my success I decided (and yes, I realise this was a foolhardy decision) to pull out the TV cabinet and clean behind it. It was more of a wrangle than the under stairs cupboard on account of the plugs and leads and tangle of extension cables, and it was less glittery on account of the lack of tinsel. But, armed with dustpan and brush, vacuum cleaner with crevice nozzle attachment, anti-bac wet wipes and a microfibre cloth, the job was done, and I’ve had words with the maid and told her not to let i...

  Buongiorno! Come sta? Oggi, c’è il compleanno di Bambino Bobble Wilson, il mio gatto nero. Lui è sette anno. Well, autocorrect didn’t like me doing THAT! Mind you, autocorrect doesn’t like me writing correct English sometimes. Autocorrect knows nothing.  Today is Bambino Bobble Wilson’s seventh birthday. He is all well and ticketty-boo, thank you for asking. I’ve been allowing him to venture outside this week, what with the weather being pleasant enough to leave the back door open. He has confined his cautious perambulations to the courtyard and laundry, and sitting proprietorially on the back door step, eyeing up his potential kingdom. Occasionally, Nell will spot him and give chase but she has mostly been up the top of the garden with me, climbing into the hedges in pursuit of birds. Her, not me. I’ve been continuing in my efforts to cut back the overgrowth, and doing rather well, although I do say so myself.  I was on my knees in the final patch of ground elder on We...

Thank goodness! The garden has FINALLY dried out. I was beginning to feel horribly overwhelmed by the mud, the wet and the rampant overgrowth. There’s nothing garden greenery likes better than warm, damp conditions, safe in the knowledge the gardener with her armoury of tools can do nothing about using them in such boggy conditions. It was taking on Sleeping Beauty’s castle proportions out there, you know, after everyone’s fallen asleep for a hundred years, including the gardeners. I needed a fairy godmother in the shape of a few dry days and a spot of sunshine. What if it’s going to be like this every year from henceforth, I thought. How am I going to cope with a third of an acre of garden-determined-to-be-undergrowth every year? I’m not getting any younger, I thought. I caught myself perusing retirement flat complexes for the over 55s with communal gardens overseen by grounds staff, with neat little window boxes just big enough for a couple of Busy Lizzie’s and a  pot of basil. A...