Living in the fast lane and the royal wave

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The boy black bird was waiting for his breakfast. I watch fascinated as he pops as many currants as possible in. Scooting off to the bare earth he drops them and is either rearranging his scoop or rolling them about a bit to collect dust for some unknown reason before coming back for another lot. When absolutely no more can be rammed in he flies of.  

It's not until I turn down the drive that I member the horses, a tiny foal curled up and dozing. A private chapel is part of the estate with huge carved memorials and the tiniest marble alter. um! I am here along with 101 others wandering around a garden that I want to camp out in. It is so big I manage to find a quiet corner by a lake to sit and ponder why the gnats are dashing about with no apparent purpose. And if they live life in the fast lane is it a short and sweet one?  

Oh my gawd there I am topless in the bedroom and farmer Rex raises his hand in manner of royal wave from his beat up land-rover. I hope it wasn't at me, being a bachelor well over 60 who has lived with his mum all his life, the shock could be huge.

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And there she was belting it out on the radio. She is funny even if not to your taste. 

Black birds and a black tea shirted boy

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He has a chops full of squirming worms, I move patches to give him freshly turned earth to scratch about in at leisure. Turning around I find he has followed me still bent on cramming more into his orange beak.

He gets greedy and invites himself into my leanto to help himself to bird mix from the large bowl. I close my eyes and hold my breath while he frantically bangs against the window, managing to flick it open provides an escape route.

He gets out of the car and waits for me. Tight jeans black tea-shirt and gelled hair. We walk down the road and he veers into the pub. All Andrews friends make time to chat to me and I silently bless them.

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Spin or just more ways to waste time!

Things began as tiny seeds

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The bees like the yellow poppies that have been cavorting all over my garden and so do I.

With a flourish parsley is written, with my new indelible pen, on the seedling, and fingers are crossed.

2 mums an assortment of children and chickens are sat around the front door. "Come and see what we have done upstairs". I walk through memories, across a cardinal red floor, sat in front of the fire enjoying "listen with mother", a traumatic experience when I was 4 by the back the door that's no longer there. Up the stairs though the bedroom where I used to like to be tucked in good and tight, on and up into attic space. I lean out of the window looking down into the garden, dormant seeds in my mind stir.   

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My love of radio began with the excited anticipation of hearing the listen with mothers theme tune.

Smile,frown and leaving behind

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All I see in the dark doorway is a face. Blond hair sparly eyes and a dazzling smile, he is leaning backward to greet me and I glimpse a large box in his arms. His family are moving 200 yards from one side of the road to the other. 

My heart races the bad tempered big black dog is coming down the hill with a young boy. I decide to leave whippet free as he is a wimp when off the lead. It advances hackles up frown on it's face curling it's lip, eye balling whippet who is frozen in terror and sensibly avoids eye contact. In an instant it decides there is no threat and bounds off. Whippet must be giving off she dog smells as confrontation with an un hampered male sets it in a fury. 

I leave the shadows of the house behind and peddle forward into the evening sun. At the bridge gnats seemed to be chasing their tails in a patch of light. I hear the church bells ring out from the next village and plan a trip with the camera when I see the wild borage. 

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FROZEN DREAM
I'll take the dream I had last night
And put it in my freezer,
So someday long and far away
When I'm an old grey geezer,
I'll take it out and thaw it out,
This lovely dream I've frozen,
And boil it up and sit me down
And dip my old cold toes in.
Shel Silverstien

The pots disaprove

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Oh there's the T V remote. Breakfast telly? I am turning into me mother. I flip it, met by a pan to the news desk whose star is having his face fixed by her in make up. Realizing half the nation is eyeing up this intimate moment he whips the script up shielding the show.

Then I discover Al Jazeera, it is a wonder to see the weather forecast. I want to watch this station all morning but the pots and pans are sending disapproving vibes out. I don the pinafore. (It is hard to override good early training, how boring of me).

A large red mug has appeared in the sink, with Big Red And Everywhere emblazoned in white on it. I can only think of buses. What can it mean?

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A much more stirring sort of pinafore.

Bless them and fancy hats

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Bless them, they have dropped the bricks back in bin boxes to stop them blowing down the street.

She has not tossed off her protective cap completely and appears to have a cone hat containing her dark orange petals with a ruff of a collar to complete the head gear.

Mr Tesco's goodies are in a huge mound on the floor. Occasionally I yearn for the humble carrier. Me and the back are in crawler gear and I foresee hours of creaking and squeaking ahead. Then man about the house blows in from work and rolls his sleeves up.    

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Liberals are a Labour saving device.

(London School of Economics 1978)

The Graffiti File

Proving and plants

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The loaf proves in the airing cupboard while whippet and I walk. The walk is timed precisely, by a bit of natter route, to enable the anchovy and olive loaf to be slung together and cooked in time for lunch.

Huge red poppies are growing on the side of the railway line, the plants are full of promises to come with many tightly closed buds. When I look around I find a treasure trove of wild flowers. 

More confusion with the plantletts that are emerging. Are they parsley? I have a brain wave I will get Mr Tesco to deliver me an indelible pen with my groceries tomorrow. It's not that I haven't written on my lolly stick it's more the biro has washed off. 

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Cute