The month of May is being a little remiss in upholding its
reputation so far this year. It appears that the word ‘merry’ was inadvertently dropped in March, and nobody has yet noticed its absence and gone back to retrieve it.
One of the mature sycamore trees had a portion of its bulk
removed last night by the heavy rain and a wind gusting to storm force, and my
twilight perambulation this evening was accompanied by an icy blast and stinging
hail. No singing robin tonight, or any other creature for that matter. Even the
rats at the bottom of the garden were keeping their heads down. (I tell a lie.
There was a single male blackbird on a nearby branch, not singing but guarding his territory as
male blackbirds are wont to do at twilight irrespective of climatic conditions
or my close presence.)
* * *
When I went out for a walk this morning, Mr A was out with
his chain saw dealing with the fallen bulk of the sycamore tree. Mr A is
retired and lives in my favourite house in all of the Shire. It’s big and
rambling, built of old red brick, with lots of angles and unusually tall chimneys.
I imagine it’s probably late Georgian and is graced with 3-4 acres of garden
consisting mainly of lawns and a wood. And the back of the house has the writer's dream - French windows leading onto a terrace with a lawn beyond. The only dichotomous element stems from
my indecision as to whether it’s redolent of a set for an Agatha Christie
murder mystery, or one of MR James’s ghost stories.
I mentioned to Mrs A once that her house reminded me of MR James. She said she’d never heard of MR James, and I’ve noticed that life can sometimes be a bit unfair like that.
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