A New Beginning

Monday 23rd May start of a new day, new week...

I've just checked up on the bird population...a friskiness of sparrows swirl from feeder to feeder, a pair of pigeons spying from the aerial... so generally an excellent beginning to the week.

Talking of excellence... I'll make a chicken pie later, and as usual won't stick fully to the recipe as laid down by Ms Berry, will probably tinker.

I watched Andrew Marr's interview with President Obama, his job (the President's) is clearly taking its toll, especially in the sockets under his beautiful eyes. I'm barmy enough to wonder whether Barack is strong enough for a second term, after all the election isn't that far away. If I were him I'd go to Camp David with Michelle and the nippers and take stock.

That reminds me I have a few new recipes to try which require wine shot stock, I expect a little sherry would do the job. We'll see.

Before I sign off I want to publicly thank the oodles of people who messaged me about the picture of my new frock, your compliments and generosity won't be forgotten or go unrewarded.

And now like my darling birds, I must fly..................

Little Things That Go Crunch!

After re-filling the bird feeders I turned around and saw three giant snails munching from a small plate I'd super glued to the windowsill. (I like to think they were a family out on a picnic.)

Being a softie with an inquisitive mind I squelched over my muddy patch to watch them.

One of the snails was sticking his head and neck out (do snails have necks?) anyway he was elongated. Being fascinated I took a closer look...His sticky type body having slithered over the small plate had accrued tiny seeds and flakes of corn, I immediately wondered if he would be ok. Immediately coming to the sensible conclusion that with the snails constant, if slow shuffle, the bird seed would eventually get knocked off.

What fascinated me most were his eyes, tiny beady bright things glistening on grey slippery stalks, seeing all, but in what form? Could he see my green jumper with its frilly white collar and pea sized stain? Could he see my eyes behind my glasses and if he could, did I look monstrous? My hair, I expect, was plain weird.
Was he able to sense that I was not a threat?

Then a slight movement, a wave almost and the snail trudged along completely covering the plate. Was my nosiness upsetting him? I hoped not. But not willing to take a chance I left the slow-coach to nibble and, after satisfying himself, wander God knows where leaving a silvery trace in his wake.

I always try to put myself in the shoes of birds and lubricious things. Shoes? I like that! Bit soppy, but soppy or not, I always consider their feelings, they're without qualifications but not stupid.

To say I panic is not overstating it, I do panic, especially if I think I've caused distress. If the creatures could vocalize their upset I'd be ok, but it's the thought of them being silently anxious which upsets me. If I accidentally crush something I kick myself whilst simultaneously comforting myself with the fact that it was a quick death.
Ok 'nuff of the womanly nonsense...I've got bread to bake and cakes to ice and stuff to watch.


Ta Ta!

P.S. I love it when pigeons land on my fence whenever I'm in the kitchen. I like to think they clock me and associate me with nuts.

Pigeon Post

Monty is watching two swinging grey pigeons
With each gentle gust of wind, they fall and rise on the branch.
Monty's head is low, his breathing rapid and with each dip of the branch, the cat's head steadies. Rock still, the spoilt predator ponders.
I wonder what he'd do if one got in the conservatory?
Pierce them probably.

Bad Man! Bad Weather! Bad Poetry!

Andy Murray has admitted he acted in an 'unprofessional manner' during his brief spell at the Olympics. The Scot shouldn't have bothered to traipse all the way to Bejing to play for Team G.B as his heart clearly wasn't in it, and as for his mind, that was obviously concentrating on much more lucrative endeavours... The U.S Open starts next week.
This admission has reinforced my opinion on the Scot, he's a bad 'un.

What else?
Oh yes, apparently we're enduring a normal British Summer, so shut up say the weathermen, get your brollies up and nail your sheds to a tree or something. Because someone's shed got swept away on account of all this terrible wind.
I still want a shed.


I like Thursdays and I love to write good poetry.
Only one of those sentiments is...true!

Rain or shine this day is mine
to play with as I will
I'll trot up the hill with a ten pound note
and yak to the waif on the till

I'll chat to a pigeon if he'll give me his time
and gaze as he jabs at his seeds
I'll resist the urge to catch him in a sieve
and just apply myself to his needs

I'll slurp mugs of tea whilst cradling Monty
and regard him with tons of wonder
I'll then brush his hair with my best friends comb
and excavate his ears with a biro.

Thank You!

Sorry Pigeon It Won't Happen Again...

I feel 'still' this morning and I don't like it. Because 'still' means 'lifeless'. And 'lifeless' means only one thing, unhappiness.
Talking of 'still' I have just disturbed a perfectly poised wood pigeon who was sitting on the garden fence, on seeing me through the kitchen window he opened his wings and angrily flapped up a few feet only to land on next doors garage roof. Silly bird.
Tomorrow I'll crawl in the kitchen on my hands and knees.

All Before Seven

Waved to the pigeons on my ariel. Ate a simple breakfast. Jumped up and down because I feel fine. A good start to Friday.
More later...

Later...

Here is something I wrote last night.
I call these out of the blue pieces, my automatic writings. Maybe the spirits of dead poets come inside me, because they long to see their 'work' played out amongst the living. Or maybe I just have a colourful imagination. Whatever it is I love nocturnal visits.

-The delicate Japanese Maple eyes its mighty Conifer neighbours. It decides it's the salad amongst the meat.

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-The blackbird with buttercup beak pokes incessantly hoping to dig out a living lunch.

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-The tortoiseshell cat next door turns into a great dancer as it leaps from fence to bin to windowsill.
His paws tapping out a choreography with dexterity and panache.

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-He throbbed like a giant throbbing machine
dripping greasy oil and water
gushing, he showered her with his grade one juice,
It got her going.