Everything in the garden, normally well drained, is dripping and the earth is sodden. I am I an afraid a fair weather gardener and so postpone digging and clearing the beds until things have dried out. The best I can do is to stretch the netting more securely over the purple sprouting broccoli to preserve it from pigeons.
Sometimes I feel like a cowboy trained to be quick on the draw. Only in my case its a camera not a gun. As I walk up Sutherland Road I spot a crow with what what looks like half a sandwich in its beak. It settle on a roof above Grove Hill Road - a road busy enough to spoil a quiet meal. As I aim my camera the bird takes off and returns whence it came in the direction of The Grove, the food still in its beak. By the time I reach The Grove, the crow has disappeared and doubtless found some privacy. I would make a poor paparazzo.
2 comments:
That's the spirit. Monty Don is a superb presenter but has one failing: an unsquashable bonhomie. Notably in exhortations that fall into "the worse the day, the better the deed" category. No doubt he has the following done in poker-work above his bed:
The cure for this ill,
Is not to sit still,
And frowst with a book by the fire,
But to take a large hoe,
And a shovel also,
And dig 'til you gently perspire.
And then you will find
That the sun and the wind
And the djinn of the garden too,
Have lifted the hump,
The cameelious hump,
The hump that is black and blue.
Kipling, I believe.
A stirring poem. I feel better for reaing it.
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