At least one of the pairs of robins in my garden is now
feeding a nest somewhere.
There are definitely more planes flying overhead to East Midlands
Airport than there have
been for several weeks.
The cock pheasant which thinks it has every right to steal
the garden birds’ seed and rolled oats has learned what the word ‘no’ means.
The delinquent squirrels, on the other hand, continue to
risk being hung by the scrotum from a tree in Rutland. I suspect their many crimes include
digging the mysterious holes in my one and only vegetable patch.
Another nuisance is the lad who’s taken to riding a noisy
quad bike around the field adjoining my garden several times a day. I assume he’s
bored.
A cold beer still tastes splendid in a warm garden (as long
as it’s quiet.)
Beyond the garden:
There’s a gang of unsavoury-looking men prowling the lanes
of the Shire, filling bits of road with bits of tarmac. Their temporary traffic
lights are a bloody nuisance.
My car keeps asking when he can go and be parked in Sainsbury’s
car park again. He says there’s a neat little number who occasionally parks
there and he fancies her a bit. I tell him I really don't know, and besides, he’s too
old for that sort of thing. He says he doesn’t feel old so **** off!
The Lady B’s erstwhile abode now has a fancy wooden porch-roof-type
thingy over the kitchen door. I have no idea why.
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