The cherries have started turning from light green to dark yellow. Soon they’ll be orange, then pink, then red – and then claret, and ready for eating….largely by the avian species here. I won’t complain: a third of last year’s crop is still in the freezer.
Every shape and size of butterfly is now hatched: the swooping Swallowtail, flickering light cornflower-blue thing the name of which I don’t know, and the smaller orange version of the Red Admiral who has yet to appear whose name I also don’t know. I’m obviously very badly integrated into the other species that flourish here: it could be years before I’m on te-toi familiarity terms with the endless varieties of lizard in my garden.
Yesterday morning I saw my first dragon fly of 2015. It did that record-breaking speed followed by incredibly instant hovering thing they do. I’m sure there are five-star generals in the Pentagon who’ve been trying to work out how to incorporate their moves into flying weapons for decades. I know nothing about dragon flies beyond finding them right-brain creepy and left-brain harmless.
The local rabbits have taken to digging tunnels under my cunningly raised vegetable and salad beds. This is a variation on the old Hollywood POW theme of trying to dig one’s way out, and so dismisses the need to hide soil in one’s trousers in order to fool the goons. Which is a good thing really, as rabbits don’t wear trousers. Rabbits are fluffy cute and a f**king nuisance at one and the same time. But they will never match up to Steve McQueen on his stolen Nazi motorbike trying to jump the barbed-wire fence into Switzerland. He wanted freedom, but all your rabbit wants is lettuce. Life is a series of relativities between the rabbity physical and the human esoteric.
Pierre Biason is still here painting the shutters at Sloggers’ Roost, while mending things as he goes along – and engaging in good banter about why the EU, neoliberals and les riches are full of it. The great thing about Monsieur Biason is that when you tell him you need a shade of grey on the front door that will bring out the stone exterior – while making a contrast to the white interior walls – he doesn’t look at you as if you might be the makeover Queen from Mars. He just goes off, mixes a colour and then asks, “Ca vous plait?” It nearly always does.
The new terrace I’m constructing entirely from builders’ waste is taking some some of shape to the front portion of the property that gets morning sun. When it’s finished, all kinds of things will be hidden under an outer coating of designer imagination. I couldn’t possibly describe what things will be disguised by the eventual finish, but I can tell you that the collective noun is a multitude.