Nasturtium about to open.
A youngish man with long hair and a guitar case in one hand passes me in the street. At first I think he must be on a mobile phone, but he is talking to himself, telling himself a story or perhaps composing the words of a song. "... and he had a really fit bird with him..." he says.
While I am trimming the long hedge, which borders our house, a man passes and says: "that looks good... a work of art". I am gratified but, having just watched Federer demolish Safin , I wonder whether that is an over statement. Then I think of Marcel Proust, and I decide reluctantly that it is.
2 comments:
my plebian definition of "art" is that it is "anythink you like, done well"
ps. the word verification code that i have to copy next seems audibly symmetrical ... "ugygu" ... a bit like coochycoo, only shorter
I wonder if the fit bird was a racing pigeon?
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