There's a touch of Spring about the garden. The snowdrops are coming to their finale; drifts of crocus pepper the flowerbeds and a group of February Gold narcissi underneath the rowan tree are embracing the day. Me, two robins, a charm of goldfinches and a small herd of starlings have been rummaging around the garden trying to tidy things up a bit. I've pruned and chopped up and hacked about a bit and there's now a pile of composting material the size of the small bedroom. And still it looks like a small branch of the tropical rain forest. All afternoon I've had one eye open for Japanese snipers, just in case. Ah well, I can only hope that at least I've made some headway towards stopping things getting worse.
Spring is definitely in the air. Doves and pigeons are cooing their songs, the magpies are replenishing their nests and the hoodies are grunting at schoolgirls outside the Co-op supermarket.
A friend and I were chatting a while back and we decided that Nat King Cole's is the definitive knicker-dropping music. She also warned me that if I ever tried it she'd kick my teeth in (the very flower of modern British maidenhood). The larger proportion of my friends are female, which probably explains my lack of a love life: it's difficult to buy into the blind romantic ideal when your friends let you into all the grisly detail of feminine reality on a regular basis.
Somewhere in a universe of infinite time and space some poor beggar is listening to "Sing Something Simple."
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5 comments:
i think i see the signs of spring around here, but who knows. it's a mystery! sigh
xoxox
Lovely, Kev, and the description of your garden is positively Pounceresque! (I'm still awaiting the first crocuses etc in mine, and hoping I haven't planted them too deep.) However, I believe that it's a "murmuration" of starlings - and, if anyone's interested, a "tidings" of magpies, a "'hood" of hoodies, a "flush" of schoolgirls, etc.
Knicker-dropping music? Kev - I'm horrified...and actually not convinced you are right about Nat King Cole
Which wireless programme used to begin with "Old ones, new ones, loved ones, forgotten ones"? It was something appalling, anyway. My new consort, Lord Numb, mistakenly believes that Strict Tempo with Victor Sylvester loosens lingerie. He has a lot to learn.
And Gadjo! Where have you been? You never call, you never write! Are we on speakers?
savannah: it turns up when you least expect it!
Gadjo: round our way it's a "docker's gob" of schoolgirls.
Lizzie: I was surprised at her choice of words, too. And even more quickly disabused of any mad notions.
Mrs. P.: Semprini Serenades, satirised in A Little Night Exposure as: "Old ones, new ones, loved ones, some as big as your head." Strict Tempo is music to take the milk bottles in to.
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