Sunday, March 21, 2010
bracket, lunch, crows
Its purpose dubious, its function forgotten, this once useful object has ended, or reached the present stage of its life, in the gutter.
Passing a staircase into an area outside a restaurant, I look down on four people having lunch. They are all eating the same thing. On every plate is a large, circular Yorkshire Pudding. It supports pieces of what I suppose to be beef. Round the pudding are bits of green vegetable and potato. Puddles of gravy are splashed over each of these compositions. A happy murmur accompanied by the clink of metal on china rises up through the well of the staircase. A bottle of red wine and half full glasses further adorn the table. I can see only the backs of the heads of two of the lunchers, while all that is visible of the other two are pairs of hands manipulating cutlery.
In The Grove, the two crows, who often preside on the grass, are back again after a short absence. I used to call them Mr and Mrs Crow on account of the proprietorial air which they assume as they waddle up and down, pecking here and there after insects in the soft earth. They seem to believe that the place is theirs, and you have the impression that other birds, and humans even, are merely tolerated. I am glad to see them back