The golden yellow flowers on the oilseed crop have almost gone now and been replaced by long green things that look like French beans. I presume they're the seed pods, and that the seeds are what get pressed to provide the cooking oil. Never knew that, but I suppose it should have been obvious.
The blue tit parents are now feeding the chicks in the nest box behind my kitchen. There’s such an air of urgency and diligence about them that they bumped into each other today while trying to get through the same small hole at the same time. I’ve been watching them for sixteen years and never seen that before. Whether through bad timing, over zealousness, or just plain clumsiness, you have to admire their effort.
Virginia Woolf’s stream of consciousness writing style is proving difficult, but the characterisations are fascinatingly drawn if you can manage to wade through the mire of random clauses laid out in seemingly endless strings.
I didn’t get Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun from Sainsbury’s this week because it wasn’t there. I made enquiries and was informed that the stock is changed every week according to the sales figures. (I did notice the previous week that it was on the bottom shelf at the far end.) I was disappointed but reasoned that supermarkets and quality literature don’t sit easily together. Please refer to Mrs Thatcher’s dictum quoted in an earlier post.
A little moth spent the whole of yesterday asleep on a worktop in my kitchen. That sort of thing only happens in the summer, so I decided it was a Good Thing and left the little guy in peace.
I came across a website tonight which told me just what I wanted to know about a certain person. People change (or at least take a very long time to reveal their predominant priorities.)
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