Being Me

Here's a poem about nature that I wrote this morning although my observations were made from the warmth and safety of the indoors as regular followers will not be surprised to hear.  A morning in March   The neighbour has frisbeed stale slices of bread across his scraggy lawn beneath the apple tree, its branches winter-bare save forgotten Christmas lights. But the birds can take incongruity with more grace than I do.   First come the pigeons, plunging in like gossips to a whispered conversation. One triumphs away a whole slice which hangs uncertain from its beak, wondering if it will survive the journey.   The sparrows arrive next, flitting up down up down as though on the end of a conductor’s baton. They peck-kiss at the slices, checking left and right for rivals, then dart upwards as though caught thieving.   Last, a robin, a lone actor. It observes from a branch until the sparrows have flecked away, then hops to...

My week in photographs. Enjoy!  1. This is the view from my bedroom window. Our house overlooks a Victorian graveyard (or 'gravy yard' as my granddaughter dubbed it and as we now call it). How about this for illustrating the difference between evergreen and deciduous? I can't help thinking that the bright orange one looks smug and flaunty as though it knows it's more interesting than its green neighbour. All we need, though, is a windy day, and the smugness will be wiped from its face as it shivers, embarrassed by its nakedness, while the green tree revels in its warm coat.  2. This is Guys Cliffe House, an ancient ruin which I pass on my daily walk. 'Hello, ancient ruin!' I call to it and back comes the echo 'Hello, ancient ruin!' Rude! Thirteen years ago, when we were exploring the Warwick area with a view to moving here and renting a house, I took a similar picture and sent it to all my friends, saying something like, 'It might need an update but ...

My try-to-get-fitter walk in the fields today was a silent one. I usually listen to the radio through earphones but have lost one of the soft earbuds and nothing spoils a walk more than having hard plastic nudging up against your fragile tympanic membrane. The BBC's  'Woman's Hour' is a brilliant programme but loyalty has limits.  It was disconcerting, walking in silence. Listening to radio distracts from the disturbing reality that my legs are propelling me in forward motion because, if I think too hard about this, I frighten myself.  Today, while walking, I had to listen to my own thoughts.  And now I've listened to my own thoughts, I remember why I like radio better. The inside of my head is like a wastepaper basket.   Be grateful that I only offer you a brief excerpt.  Oh, look, that bird is - / Where did I put that mark scheme. I'll need it for - / My shoes are getting muddier./ Maybe mash with the fish tonight / really muddy / The trees are defin...

While we were having breakfast today, I looked out of the window at the garden. 'Quick! Look!' I said to my husband. 'There's a squirrel trying to ram raid the bird feeder.' He ran to the window. 'Which one?' he said. Eh? I said, 'I don't know. How am I  supposed to know all their names?' 'No, which bird  feeder?' he said. Ah. Of course. For a moment there, I thought he'd mistaken me for Francis of Assisi, not Fran of Leamington Spa. We have two bird feeders. They are meant to be squirrel proof but that doesn't stop the rodents from attempting entry. They wrap themselves round the bird feeder, hanging on for grim death, while trying to access the contents. They try every which way: upside-down, downside-up, or suspending themselves from it by their claws, swinging the bird feeder from side to side wildly like someone on a theme park ride. I wouldn't call myself a bird watcher at all but I do like sitting by the w...

I watched a wasp die on the bus yesterday morning. I know, as an opener, it's not the same as 'Hey, did you see the latest episode of Game of Thrones? but it's all I have to offer. I'm nervous about wasps. I'm sure, if they could talk, they'd say they were nervous about me too. But all I have in my armoury is a rolled-up newspaper and a bad aim. They have a stinger. And, close up, they're pretty scary. A wasp in a field, I can cope with. A wasp in the garden, just about. But a wasp on the bus is a cross wasp. (Move along, Dr Seuss.) I saw it progressing along a window two seats in front of me. It was crawling my way. I don't mean, crawling in the way I'd crawl, as in 'Oof, oof, my knees, and how will I ever get up from this position?'  I mean, crawling towards me. I expected a confrontation. I picked up the copy of the Metro I'd collected when I got on the bus and began rolling. It crawled nearer. But it was slow. ...

We don't have an expansive garden. Put it this way, when Paul says 'I'm going out to mow the lawn,' it takes him longer to haul the mower out of the shed and plug it in than it does to finish the job itself. There's a zzsshh zzsshh sound for about twenty seconds and that's it done: tidy lawn, with its nineteen blades of grass short and neat. He still indulges in a heavy self-satisfied sigh afterwards as though he's just mown the gardens at Kensington Palace or the Taj Mahal, but I'll allow him that, as I never offer to mow the lawn myself. Sometimes I think it would be fun, though, while he's in the shed foraging out the mower, to run outside with a pair of nail scissors and do the job myself before he emerges. 'Da DAH! Surprise!' We like to encourage the local wildlife into the garden but because of its size there are limitations. Bees, butterflies and tiny birds we can cope with. If a fat pigeon, a pregnant cat or even a particularly ...

I stood waiting for a bus today, by a tree. All was quiet (including, no bus ...) Then a bird began to sing. I looked up at the tree but couldn't see it at first. Who'd handed it a microphone? It wasn't just singing; it was yelling a song out as though hoping it would reach a little birdy penpal in the Far East. I caught some of the words. The song went something like this. 'I'm a bloody brilliant singer. There should be an X-Factor programme for birdies. Simon Cowell wouldn't know what had hit him. Tweet tweet double tweet. Why does Adele get all the attention? She doesn't even enunciate her consonants. I do. Tweeeeeeeeeeeeee T. See, no glottal stops for me. David Bowie kicks the bucket and, oh yes, SO much fuss, but if I keeled over now and lay on my back, my little dead legs in the air like bonsai twigs, who's going to miss MY music?' Tweet tweet double tweet.' As you can see, the little bird needs to revise 'Effective...

I'm in love with this colour. I think it's called teal. Here's a square of teal. I have the following possessions, all in teal. 1. My laptop. (I think I told you that story . The man in the computer shop wasn't impressed that I chose a piece of kit based on its colour alone, without asking questions about megabytes or other such young-people nonsense.) 2. The cover for my Kindle Paperwhite. (My daughter gave me this. She thought my reactions overstated when I realised it matched my laptop cover, but she was probably worried I would dance on her ginger cat if I didn't calm down.) 3. Some teeshirts. 4. Some jumpers. 5. Some scarves. 6. Some socks. All I lack is a pair of teal trousers and some teal shoes, but one can overdo things. If I went out dressed all in teal, perhaps with a teal hat, I would be mistaken for a bright summer sky and that might not end well. What I didn't know, until a minute after I began this blog post, was that a teal...

I actually went into a field this weekend. What, outdoors?  I hear you say.  Do you even venture onto the doormat outside your house without hyperventilating and needing to breathe into a paper bag? I hear you say.  Don't you feel panicky merely standing near an open window? I hear you say. Well, here's the proof that I braved the elements.  I took this photo myself, honest. These are tractor prints, not my footprints.   I may be a size 7 but even my trainers don't make tracks like that. And here's a picture of the whole field, although I did send this to my sister and she said, 'You could have taken that while leaning out of a cafe window.'  This kind of cynicism cuts one to the quick. This looks as though I was leaning over when taking this.  I may well have been, through tiredness.  We had walked for 30 whole minutes. What got me into the field, then? No, I was NOT lost. It was because my friend, with whom I ...

I have problems with wind. No, this isn't an intimate confession about digestive disorders.  I write those on my other blog 'Intimate Confessions about My Digestive Disorders' which, oddly, doesn't seem to be getting a lot of readers, along with its sister blogs 'Descriptions of my Warty Growths' and 'Adventures with Toenail Clippings'. No, by 'wind', I mean the blowy stuff. Here's a proper dictionary definition, in case you felt my definition 'the blowy stuff' lacked some precision. Wind : air in natural motion, as that moving horizontally at any velocity along the earth's surface.   Air?  Motion?  Moving horizontally?  Velocity?  Along?  The words themselves make me suspicious.  There is far, far too much movement involved there. If someone offered me a 'day out in windy weather' and someone else offered me 'a day cleaning hairs out of other people's plugholes' I would take the latter and be truly...

I get really excited when Autumn starts. Is this because I am a lover of nature?  Is it because I find that observing creation enriches my inner soul?  Is it because I see, in the flaming red and orange trees, beauty which inspires my heart to leap with joy? Regular readers will know that the answer to all these questions is: by 'eck as like.  (This roughly translates as 'Are you joking, because Fran is to love of nature what a vegetarian is to love of steak tartare, a rack of ribs and garlic prawns on the side') No.  The reason I get really excited is that, when next door's tree is in full autumn colour, it matches my duvet cover. Here is a picture of the type of tree in next door's garden: By 'type of tree', Fran meant 'orangey red'.  She hoped no one in the know would write and tell her that these species of trees don't exist in Britain. And here is a picture of some bedding which is very like mine. Our bedroom is at the b...

I am having big trouble with insects. 1. Insects in my drinks Sunday.  In the garden with husband and friends. A wasp dive-bombs into my non-alcoholic lager shandy made with diet lemonade.  Now, there's a wasp with an identity problem, or it hadn't worked very hard in its GCSE classes on 'Recognising Sugary Drinks'.  I'm thinking: 'I'll just give it a few seconds, because as soon as it realises, it'll make its way out again, and I can have my drink back.'  But, no.  It stays in there, and we all watch as its little black and yellow butt waggles up and down while it slurps my drink with undignified enjoyment.  It's all most entertaining, especially for everyone else who doesn't have wasps in their drinks.  In the end I scoop it out with a teaspoon and lay it on the patio in a mini-puddle of shandy from which it struggles into position, then flies off damply in a completely straight line, unlike all its less dense compatriots who are weavin...

Four questions I posed while holidaying in the Lake District last week. 1. Why do people very keen on walking make it harder for themselves by going to a mountainous area to do so?  Why not walk in East Anglia where it's on the flat?  I don't get it. 'Look, I agree with Fran.  I've got more blisters than a 36 pack of aspirin. Next year it's East Anglia or you're on your own, sunshine.' 2. Is six pieces of Grasmere gingerbread in one day excessive consumption? Fran agreed that making TWO pieces of gingerbread look like ONE  was a great help with the guilt. 3. If you take a bus up to the top of a steep hill, is it duplicitous to pretend to wipe sweat off your brow when people walk past? If only those walking past knew that she'd only just got off the 43 from Grasmere and that the rucksack was crammed with gingerbread. 4. Does 'looking out of the holiday cottage's window at least once per chapter' constitute...