Standing in The Grove (yesterday) I try to locate the source of loud birdsong which is surprsing because of the frost it being so early in the year. "What is it?" says a man who approaches me at the moment when I spot the bird. "I think it's a thrush," I say. "In the laurel?" "Yes. There it is." "Yes it is," he says. We agree that it is surprisingly early for a thrush to be singing. "I live in Hastings," he says. "I saw a parakeet the other day." He walks on "Happy bird-watching," he says.
As I walk past The Grove Tavern this morning, the smell of burning logs floats in the frosty air. One of those smells which one could get nostalgic about. A cliche smell like the smell of fresh linen.
They look like a rather good pair of gloves, I hope they find their way back to the right hands!
We once saw an old leather glove in the middle of the road, and Tom became convinced it was a tortoise and drove back to rescue it. Now when there's a glove lying about I often refer to it as a tortoise, just to tease.
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