Debbie Dolittle
Today, I maintained a star shape in the back of the van for ten kilometres. The long awaited, over-sized shower screen had arrived at Mr Bricolage and was duly collected. I was braced against it in the rear, one hand and a foot against the screen, to stop it toppling on corners (and there are lots of those...), the other foot keeping the shopping bags (wine, lettuce and sausage) upright, and one hand holding a rolled-up copy of Leclerc's 'espace culturel' magazine, ready to swat the monstrously-sized wasp Kevin's been stowing in the back of the van. The van that, incidentally, smells like Polly and her stray cat friends have had a wee-fest in amongst the dregs of dechetterie dross. Kevin did open a window for my comfort... As well as the wasp, there was a fuzzy moth imprisoned in there. Strangely, it provided more of a risk than the stingy one. The wasp really didn't care about me; it was sniffing around the window frames, but the moth... The moth spent a little time flapping dustily at the wasp, then it found entertainment in putting itself in the draught from the open window so that it was hurled at my head repeatedly, distracting me from my star shape.
The animal and insect worlds impose themselves in this part of France. While eating our barbecued fish this evening on the top lawn, while watching the relationship develop, like a game of chess, between a black cat and a magpie, a large owl swooped slowly across the scene and then retired to a nearby tree to whoo-hoo in a melancholy way. The cicadas and crickets provided a musical backdrop to this, accompanied by the Midwife Toad, who is back with a vengeance, peeping more rapidly than before, and choosing to do it in the afternoon, rather than at midnight- small mercies. Over our heads, in the walnut trees, a thrumming of bees; in the hedgerow, the chirping and singing of small birds, most of which I still can't identify. They've lost interest in my fat balls. Occasionally, a haunting screek will resound from on high... a buzzard, circling as it searches for a tasty small mammal to seize. I still worry about Polly. We watched one fold back its wings and dive into the lower field yesterday.
I came across a beetle today that changed from brown, to red to green- what sort of magic is that?
There is a mole citadel on the lower 'rocky outcrop' field. Cruelly, I gain satisfaction from flattening their muddy turrets with my lawn tractor each week. There are other citadels there, but they are not populated by moles. There is another creature. Its burrows are the size of rabbit burrows, but they're not rabbits- no rabbit poop around. But, there is the most disgusting welcome mat at the mouth of each hole- a big patch of significantly-sized black poo. The black poo is the same black poo that I found last year, full of cherry stones. The cherries aren't ripe yet, so for now, it's unidentifiable goop. They could be glis glis, but I would hope their poop would be more delicately-sized.
Ants work hard here. They come in a range of sizes, colours and temperaments, and they make long snaking journeys over surfaces they have no business exploring. But ants are not responsible for the unlicensed explorations of my skin; something tiny is biting me. If it's a flea, then I'm holding Polly responsible.
Oh, and we've got bats.
The animal and insect worlds impose themselves in this part of France. While eating our barbecued fish this evening on the top lawn, while watching the relationship develop, like a game of chess, between a black cat and a magpie, a large owl swooped slowly across the scene and then retired to a nearby tree to whoo-hoo in a melancholy way. The cicadas and crickets provided a musical backdrop to this, accompanied by the Midwife Toad, who is back with a vengeance, peeping more rapidly than before, and choosing to do it in the afternoon, rather than at midnight- small mercies. Over our heads, in the walnut trees, a thrumming of bees; in the hedgerow, the chirping and singing of small birds, most of which I still can't identify. They've lost interest in my fat balls. Occasionally, a haunting screek will resound from on high... a buzzard, circling as it searches for a tasty small mammal to seize. I still worry about Polly. We watched one fold back its wings and dive into the lower field yesterday.
I came across a beetle today that changed from brown, to red to green- what sort of magic is that?
There is a mole citadel on the lower 'rocky outcrop' field. Cruelly, I gain satisfaction from flattening their muddy turrets with my lawn tractor each week. There are other citadels there, but they are not populated by moles. There is another creature. Its burrows are the size of rabbit burrows, but they're not rabbits- no rabbit poop around. But, there is the most disgusting welcome mat at the mouth of each hole- a big patch of significantly-sized black poo. The black poo is the same black poo that I found last year, full of cherry stones. The cherries aren't ripe yet, so for now, it's unidentifiable goop. They could be glis glis, but I would hope their poop would be more delicately-sized.
Ants work hard here. They come in a range of sizes, colours and temperaments, and they make long snaking journeys over surfaces they have no business exploring. But ants are not responsible for the unlicensed explorations of my skin; something tiny is biting me. If it's a flea, then I'm holding Polly responsible.
Oh, and we've got bats.
Comments
Post a Comment