Differences and Samenesses.

Something is happening to the wildlife profile down in the Shire. This is the twelfth summer I’ve spent here and the first in which I haven’t seen a single house martin. They’re usually the most prolific of the summer visitors from Africa, but this year not a one. And there are far fewer swallows than usual, too.

One swallow does not a summer make, runs the old adage. So what does fewer than usual mean? Climate change?

On the other hand I’m seeing things I’ve never seen before, like the big orange butterfly I spotted through the window a few days ago, and that unusually big snail with the aubergine shell and black body that I mentioned on the blog, and the big brown slug I saw last night which was so fat it was almost circular. And tonight I saw a heavy-bodied moth which moved with fast, frantic movements quite different from the flitting, laid back flight of the other moths. Is this only the beginning, I wonder.

But at least most of the flowers are showing themselves more or less on cue. At the moment it’s sweet pea time. Twelve years of passing through sweet pea time gives you a reassuring sense of the cyclical nature of life. For that’s how I perceive time these days: by daffodil time and sweet pea time and Himalayan honeysuckle time. Christmastime is a mere human artifice.

A Bug and a Beast and the Late Lady B.

I’ve been pondering all afternoon whether I should write the post about the firefly, the warthog and the deep, dark jungle. Eventually I decided to desist because you never know who might read your blog and feelings might get hurt. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings.

On the other hand, it did occur to me that the Lady Bella might read it from beyond the grave and be amused because she would recognise herself as the firefly. But that would be inadequate compensation for hurt feelings in other quarters, so I stand by my decision. Maybe I’ll make it another day if it still represents a relevant issue.

By the way, didn’t I mention that the Lady Bella is no longer with us? I didn’t? Oh, sorry. Her alter-ego is alive and well and looking utterly radiant, but dear Bella rang down the curtain and joined the choir invisible a few weeks ago. My grief at her passing will take some time to be assuaged.

And with the grief comes the frustration – all the things I would so like to say but will never get the chance. And then there’s the question she once promised to answer and which will remain a mystery until my own grave yawns as it waits to be fed.

Ah well, I suppose such is the way of things in the matter of life, death and allegories.

Another Late Reflection.

One of the reasons I’m so anxious to get the curtains closed once night has fallen is that I’m prey to the irrational suspicion that I will see a hideous face looking through the window if I don’t.

It happened once, you know. It was the face of the old lady who lived next door, and my God was it hideous. It was the very model for every crone ever represented on the cover of a children’s book of dark fairy tales. Few incidents in my life sent chills up my spine as bad as that one.

And her elderly daughter once told me that she disagreed with drilling for oil because it was taking the lubrication out of the earth and that would lead to more earthquakes. I’ve never known whether she might have been right.

Lacking Inspiration.

Having had one of those days when a resurgence of the old CFS made me feel utterly washed out and ill for several hours, I then went looking through the news pages for inspiration. I didn’t find any. The home news continues to be dominated by the Grenfell Tower disaster, and further afield it’s all about G20, violent demonstrations and the two tyrants meeting one another ‘for the first time.’

Grenfell Tower isn’t a suitable subject for a blog post except to reflect on the argument that government austerity measures played a large part in the severity of the incident, and to be appalled by the sobering fact that such events are almost routine in poorer parts of the world. It seems the connection between poverty and low life expectancy has many strings. It’s why there are violent demonstrations at the G20 summit.

As for the tyrant Trump, he’s becoming tedious. A big head consisting of little more than a big mouth, a lot of hair, and sludge for brains has limited appeal to hold the interest. I think I’ll forget him until he throws another firecracker out of his playpen and gives the family cat a heart attack.

Late Reflections.

I’ve noticed that Chinese women tend to look hard and uncompromising when they’re being serious, and compellingly lovely when they smile. I’ve also noticed that trees look much bigger when it’s dark than they do during the day.

I suspect the two facts are connected, but on a level beyond the remit of a mere blog.

I’ve also developed a sudden urge to stroke a young Japanese woman’s bare arm, and I’m utterly nonplussed that my jokes on YouTube don’t get any thumbs up even though some of them are much better than others which get 326 likes.

Trump and the I Word.

I gather Mr Trump says we must guard against the destruction of western civilisation.

As I see it, the two biggest threats to western civilisation (whatever that is exactly) are climate change – which Donald pretends he doesn’t believe in because addressing it doesn’t square with the pecuniary interests of American big business – and Donald Trump himself. I wonder whether he knows what irony is. I wonder whether he knows what western civilisation is.

This is not a fit post for this time of night, but I do so like to get off the number 13.

On Things Beginning with B.

I just spent quite some time helping a beetle out of its dilemma. It was on the kitchen floor when I went through to make a jug of coffee, and became quite upset when it saw this bloody great animal standing over it.

It made a dash for the kickboard under the sink unit, then changed its mind. It made another dash for the skirting board, and changed its mind again. It made further dashes to other places of refuge – including under my foot, which I had to explain was a little hazardous – getting all in a dither, running hither and thither (that’s called prosetry) until eventually I had to intervene. I guided it gently to the safety of the gap under the washing machine and I haven’t seen it since. I said ‘well done, little friend,’ so maybe now it understands and is whimpering quietly with relief.

And this was running through my mind at the time:

Oh Lady Bee, you hum and fly

What sounds you make as you fly by

But now you’ve gone and changed your hat

Oh Lady Bee, what are you at?

So now even the ditties are becoming enigmatic.

And did you know that worker bees – the ones who spend long, tiring days in the sun slaving over hot flowers – are all female? The males spend the day in the hive ‘attending to’ the queen. But when the queen no longer requires their attention in the autumn, they get kicked out of the hive to die of cold. How gratifying it is to understand the trial of being a redundant drone.

Note on a Lyric in a Lullaby.

"To the end of your days"

Is a most poignant phrase

Which portends of the path

And the parting of ways

A Stalking Conundrum.

I was wondering today what would happen if two people with a stalker’s mentality developed an obsession with one another. Could mutual stalking work? I haven’t come to a decision yet because the usual stalking scenario – in which there is an easily identifiable aggressor and victim – would somehow have to work differently. It did strike me, however, that it could be blackly comic ('black' because real stalking is far from funny.)

And did I say that I’ve been the victim of a mild case of stalking myself twice in my life? The first ended when the ‘aggressor’ saw the light and took counselling, and the second was all wrapped up when I got a letter from her saying ‘I’m sorry for the trouble. I misunderstood your intentions.’ Or words to that effect. And who do you think felt guilty? Yup. And as far as I know I was never in any physical danger. And I didn’t have a rabbit.

A Girl Called Alice.

I met a lovely little girl this morning, a delightfully prim and shy 3-year-old called Alice. I like that name. My paternal grandmother was called Alice, and so was my favourite aunt.

She reminded me of something I said on this blog a while ago: that if the world were ruled by little girls it would certainly be even more chaotic than it is now, but it would also probably be a much nicer place. For example, welfare would be extended to the provision of ice cream, chocolate and bubble gum to everybody earning less than £100,000 a year, and mistreatment of animals would become a capital offence.

‘Off with his head,’ cried Alice when she saw a man scolding his dog.

‘That’s my line, you little upstart!’ screamed the Red Queen.

‘Not any more it isn’t,’ replied Alice with a confident and triumphant smile.

And the fact of boys being useless would be universally regarded as axiomatic and never thought of as any kind of –ism (apart from a truism, of course, which doesn’t count.)