Today in the Garden.

I rescued a bee (I like bees.) It was floating upside down in the birds’ bathing bowl, kicking its little legs around and looking only minutes from an inglorious end. So I put my finger up close and it crawled onto the safe haven of a helping hand (or digit if you want to be precise.) And then it sat on my finger for several alternative minutes in the warm sunshine, rubbing its legs together and buzzing its wings and generally exuding an air of ‘Phew! Thought my number was on that one.’ And then it took off and climbed happily into the azure sky. Such reward there is to be had from so small an endeavour.

It struck me that in several million years time, when bees have evolved to the point at which they’re wrecking the environment with rampant consumption, there will exist a major religion with countless millions of faithful acolytes. And its god shall be called Jeffrey.

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Meanwhile, I recognised that there is at least one pleasurable side effect of lockdown. Every day while I’m in my garden I see attractive young ladies (for which read ‘girls’ if you don’t mind me being politically incorrect) riding their horses sedately on the lane outside my house. Sometimes they’re alone and sometimes they’re in pairs, but they’re always wearing neat little sporty, sleeveless tops, and they have their hair arranged in ponytails sticking out of the back of their riding hats. And why bother with the landscape when you can look at the view?

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(p.s. Did Trump really advise Americans to inject themselves with disinfectant, or is that fake nooz?)