Mysteries and a Beetle Called Lazarus.

I have a new species of butterfly in my garden. I looked it up and discovered that it’s a Painted Lady. Did no one tell it that I prefer my ladies without make-up?

They’re common enough apparently, but I’ve never seen one here before. It seems they come up from North Africa for the summer. Why do they do that, I wonder. What does northern Europe have that northern Africa doesn’t? I don’t suppose I shall ever know because I don’t suppose I will ever go to northern Africa. Maybe our flowers are tastier.

I also I have a new career. I go out several times a day and rescue sundry flying things drowning in the birds’ water bowl. Most of them survive thankfully, but what I don’t understand is this: My birds have three water bowls at their disposal, but the sundry flying things only ever drown in one of them.

But what mystifies me most is why people from several parts of the world read this blog. Why would anybody be interested in the minutiae of my life, the state of my mental and physical health, or my sometimes unconventional opinions on random subjects? There’s nothing much else in it these days. The ditties are conspicuous by their absence, I seem to have lost the ability to express the surreal in untypical prose, and my friend the llama hasn’t visited for months. I don’t think I understand very much.

(Oh, and I won’t tell the story of the squashed beetle which apparently rose from the dead because it would sound too fanciful even by my standards. I’ve developed a curious affection for beetles since I came to live here. It’s a shame they dislike being stroked.)