Monty the Osprey - a true story for children by Susan Gilbert

     Monty was an osprey. He was a clever, strong bird with dark feathers on his back and wings, white feathers on his front and dark stripes across his chestnut brown eyes. When he lifted his neck feathers into a crest at the back, he looked like an eagle in a fairy story. In spring and summer he lived in Wales, in a beautiful valley with hills, trees and green meadows and the River Dyfi flowed through the valley. 

Now, there are three things that all ospreys need and the most important of these three things is fish. Monty only ate fish, he didn’t like anything else. He was a very good fisher-bird, with long, strong legs and sharp, curved claws to grab a fish. He would dive feet first into the River Dyfi to catch trout, sometimes he even went right under water but he didn’t mind getting wet. He flew up from the river and with his powerful wings he could carry a fish almost as heavy as he was. Sometimes for a change Monty flew to the sea to catch different kinds of fish.

The second thing that ospreys need is a nest, and Monty had a good one. There was a high-up platform which some nice people had made for him when he was a young osprey and Monty had built his nest there. Every year the people watched the nest to make sure it was safe.  In April, Monty arrived from Africa, where he spent the winter, and he tidied his nest. He brought big branches and sticks to make the sides strong and plenty of moss and grass to make the centre comfy.

The third thing that every osprey needs is a mate. That’s why Monty made his nest look so comfy, he wanted it to be nice for his mate who was called Glesni.  They had  both been away in Africa and Monty came home first to make the nest ready. He made the nest look splendid, and he waited. He was a very tidy osprey. 

 Monty waited a long time, he was very patient, he knew he had made the nest really nice, but still Glesni didn’t arrive.  She had died in Africa, only Monty didn’t know that, which was very sad. She had been his mate for five years and they’d had lots of lovely chicks, so he really missed her. 

The Nutshell and the Oyster, or Why I Won't keep a Dream Diary

  When it's been suggested that, as a writer I really ought to keep a dream diary, I make excuses.  I'm told that writing down my dreams, just after I wake, can help my creativity, open up new horizons, instil a sense of discipline, routine etc.  I just know that I can't.  All I can do with the dream diary idea is try and explain, to myself, why it won't happen.

     The opposite of 'putting it in a nutshell' could be to 'have the world as my oyster', but for all its pearly sheen, an oyster is just another container. Another shell to cut me off from the universe outside. Dreams are like this, maybe they contain a kernel of truth or a pearl of wisdom (though I seriously doubt that) but they don't connect me to reality, they cut me off from it. 

      Since I was tiny, my imagination has been my constant familiar. I love it dearly, it has almost always been the most important thing in my life.  Maybe this makes me borderline certifiable, but I usually feel I am in charge of it. I began controlling and experimenting with my imagination from before I can remember and it mostly does what I want. It has carried me through stormy days and sleepless nights. But when I can sleep, dreaming is seldom helpful.

      In my dreams, my imagination is not merely beyond my control, it's out of synch with where I need it to take me. Sometimes the intensity of a dream, even though I've almost forgotten the subject, can invade a whole day, making me useless. I know that there are accepted reasons for people to believe that dreams are a way out of the nutshell or the oyster or the cave with shadows on the wall, I just don’t happen to believe them. For me, it feels like the opposite.

      When I was a child, for a time I became petrified at the prospect of sleep, because my worst nightmare was waiting for me. This dream, recurring time after time, was of walking down a dark stairwell, down almost endless staircases, descending into catacombs or cellars or dungeons, spiralling out of my control and I knew there was something terrible and nameless at the bottom, waiting just for me. I would have welcomed Esher’s staircases, they make complete circuits, therefore there is no end. That would have been preferable to the knowledge that there was indeed an end.

       I finally invented a way to escape from the horror of this nightmare. When my fear reached a certain pitch, I learned to very deliberately tell myself, this is a dream and now I am going to wake up. It worked, I did wake up. And a mere shadow behind the door was just my dressing gown hanging there, and the creak of the tree branches outside held no fear for me. And after a while the dream became less frequent. It has left me with an abiding horror of enclosed spaces, and a suspicion of staircases.

      I have no desire to analyse this dream. I’m not interested in Freudian or spiritual interpretations of it. Dream imagery is bound to differ not just according to culture but also personal experience and associations. My nightmare is simply about an uncontrollable fear, which must be a pretty universal emotion. This is what I get from memorable dreams, emotion, not imagery.

      I know that I do have pleasant dreams, but they seldom last into daylight, beyond a certain feeling of well being or satisfaction. Memorable dreams are of frustration, or fear, or exhausted anxiety because I have to perform some mundane task which is nevertheless so enormous as to be impossible. I often wake with a clear memory of sobbing my heart out from anxiety and frustration, so maybe I am still telling myself to wake up.

       Such are my excuses for not writing a dream diary. So as a writer how do I go about “making the darkness conscious,” without this apparently invaluable tool?  When writing fiction I find it comparatively easy, I make my characters suffer, putting myself into their heads, their minds, so that I can feel how they respond to the suffering. Perhaps this is where my dreams come in, enabling me to heighten the emotional intensity that my characters feel, but I don't need a dream diary to remind me of this. 

St Leonards Writers Survives Lockdown and Bears Fruit.

Our small writer's group has, after a hiatus in the Spring, sprung up again. Even before lockdown began a few members were becoming anxious and avoiding meetings. Then 26th March and lockdown, for a few weeks none of us knew what to do. Luckily an email conversation began, eventually leading to an agreement that at least some of us wanted to have a go at Zoom meetings, which we began in May. 

A major fruit of lockdown is our new anthology, 'Forty Stories High'. Most members had submitted before our self-imposed deadline in February, and April-May was spent collating and proofreading the stories and poetry.  Editorial rigour may have been a bit lacking, the group not meeting up meant that in the end the production of the book was down to just two members, David and me, we felt we needed to just get on with it, for everybody else's sake. I proofread, he did everything else. Proofreading is not the same as editing.

So the now book exists, it looks great and contains a lot of excellent stuff.  It was published in October and though it's not completely perfect, I'm pretty pleased. It's the first time any of my stories and poetry have appeared in print. £7.99, please contact me or  http://stleonardswriters.com/ for a copy. We're also now on Facebook, please like us and message us.  

Despite a few hiccups, meeting via Zoom seems to be working for most of us. A few members haven't yet been able to join us on Zoom, but nine or ten have managed at least one meeting and most of these have become regulars. We have had up to eight per meeting which is more than we often had when meeting in person at St Ethelburga's Church, especially in the winter!  We did manage one social gathering, socially distanced of course, during the summer; a group picnic was enjoyed by members and partners the in the gardens by West St Leonards beach. 

http://stleonardswriters.com/  

Worst Fears by Fay Weldon - book review

    This cynical saga of Alexandra Ludd's slow awakening to her dead husband's perfidy isn't particularly easy reading. The style of writing in the book is deceptively simple, almost like a folk tale or maybe an Aga saga at the beginning, clipped sentences and characters with vaguely ludicrous names give a distancing effect.  However a lot is going on inside the covers, as well as under them.

      It is a very middle class tale which dates it, 1980's or early 90's in feel, nobody seems obsessed with mobiles and computers. I was determined to finish it, the story line was engaging and the character of Alexandra (nobody calls her Alex) is deeply drawn. I needed to know if she survived the traumas, the tension was gripping . It's riddled with black humour, I just wish I'd been able to enjoy it more.     

   Fay Weldon's genre is bleakly humorous stories of individual women trapped in oppressive situations caused by the patriarchal structure of British society. She does it very well, within a small social spectrum, and Worst Fears fits right in.

   

Standing in Another Man's Grave by Ian Rankin - book review

 Standing in Another Man's Grave

by 

Ian Rankin (Goodreads Author)

Sue Gilbert's review

Oct 08, 2020  ·  edit

it was amazing

bookshelves: favourite-authors, might-read-again, mystery, whodunnit

A brilliantly told story. Tense, engrossing and unputdownable, is that a word? Spellcheck seems to think so. Anyway I finished all 422 pages in 52 hours while still getting on with a lot of other stuff, and having a few hours sleep.
So much I could say about this 18th incarnation of Rebus, but I won't do spoilers.
I will just say Rebus is on the road, not much of the story takes place in Edinburgh. The litany of the roads travelled and the places visited may be music to the ears of anyone who feels that a part of their past is in Scotland. Almost lyrical descriptions in places, plus some very believable, tense and humorous dialogue between Rebus and other investigators.
So yes, I enjoyed this one! Thank you Mr Rankin.

Resurrection Men by Ian Rankin - Rebus #13 - book review

 I really enjoyed this book. I very seldom give a book five stars but it was about time Ian Rankin had five. Resurrection Men fits the bill because I never thought I could describe a Rebus novel as funny, but this one is, at least in places. It's mainly down to awkward situations and excellent dialogue which is concise and full of humour, black and otherwise.

Convoluted plotting is necessary to get to the conclusion and along the way are plenty of dubious characters - most of them policemen - and a lot of agonising for Rebus and Siobhan Clarke. People get killed, most of them are deserving though not all. Not every plotline is filled with humour, after all this is a Rebus novel.

Basically, the High Hedyins are using John Rebus, an awkward and bloody annoying cop, in a sting operation to get some awkward and bloody bent cops. Inevitably it goes pear shaped. Are Big Ger Cafferty and his sidekick, the Weasel, involved? What do you think?

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, read a John Rebus book. I can recommend most of them,  although this may not be the best one for beginners. It's hard to come by well written detective fiction and I wasn't really a fan until I began reading Ian Rankin's work, which is usually extremely well written. This is an author who doesn't just know exactly what each word means, he also knows exactly how to use it for maximum effect.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3515717586?fbclid=IwAR3kgBFz5zQ6oQ6wH9_uc7AI7aM-u4atPu2zKZ1jVUzvzn21vLh7jtPXovI

The Two Sonias

An interesting new article on 31 Women artist Sonia Sekula and another neglected artist, Sonia Gechtoff, by Marjorie Heins.

https://www.academia.edu/43697911/The_Two_Sonias_Sekula_Gechtoff_and_the_Vagaries_of_Fame

Peter Green, RIP

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vyPnIYbMPs&fbclid=IwAR2Cg4o-RGXEyba2558kRKbmg2P0BGN9IOBTKWq6lcYjCVJvvGB8cMpn6ts

Peter Green, the best guitarist and bluesman I ever saw live, has died age 73.  I have seen quite a few guitarists, the good and the great; John Lee Hooker, Jeff Beck, Alvin Lee, Paul Kossoff, Mick Abrahams, B.B. King, Eric Clapton, Tony McPhee, Jimmy Page, Roy Wood and more.  Greeny I saw many times, onstage his performing was measured, sensitive and mesmerising.

Peter Green formed Fleetwood Mac in 1967 with Drummer Mick Fleetwood and bassist John McVie. This was the original Fleetwood Mac and within a year had a line up of three talented guitarists: Jeremy Spencer whose forte was rock ‘n’ roll and slide guitar, Danny Kirwan, a younger latecomer whose lighter touch marked the bands gradual progress away from pure blues and Peter Green, whose pure, unadorned lead guitar was at times astounding and his sensitive vocals and song-writing made the band great. He wasn’t bad on the harmonica either.

Peter Alan Greenbaum was born in in 1946 in Stepney, in a council flat just off the Mile End Road.  He was the youngest of four, with two older brothers and a sister.  In 1948 his father, Joe, changed the whole family’s name to Green, in an attempt to put behind them the flagrant racist and anti-Semitic abuse the family received, it didn’t really help.  Peter picked up the guitar age 10 and the family moved from Stepney to Putney, which did help, a bit.  He was in his first band by 14, with school friends and left school at 15.  He became semi-professional with a dance band, playing bass, while working as a trainee butcher.

A couple of bands later Peter Green joined R ‘n B group the Muskrats  and was very much into serious blues. After tuning pro he joined the Looners, an instrumental band who had residences at London clubs became Shotgun Express, with Mick Fleetwood as drummer.  His big break, with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, nearly didn’t happen.  Eric Clapton had been the star of the John Mayall setup and after he left, Mayall had a rapid series of guitarists who wouldn’t do.  Peter received an offer from Eric Burden to join the New Animals at the same time as Mayall offered him the Bluesbreakers.  John Mayall was the Godfather of the British blues scene in the 1960’s, nurturing and promoting a number of musicians and he encouraged Peter to write, compose and sing as well as to play guitar.  Mick Fleetwood and John McVie also joined soon after. Greeny probably made the right choice.

I saw Peter Green, at Tofts Club in Folkestone, with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, before I even knew who he was, just that he was damn good. Then I saw, and more importantly I heard him several times with Fleetwood Mac, where he was phenomenal, played the blues with a sensitivity like no one else.  He was the star even though he never actually wanted to be bandleader or be a star, he just wanted to be in a good band.  He was in a great band,  but he had other issues. He left Fleetwood Mac in 1970.
Was he, as is usually quoted, another victim of the 1960’s love affair with LSD?  Maybe, he was later diagnosed with schizophrenia.  He gave away most of his royalties and though he carried on playing with other artists for much of the seventies, serious mental health problems left him increasingly  Out of Reach for many years.

Lastly I saw him on the ninth of June, 2000 at Sheffield City Hall, in Splinter Group, which was a little too much like a Peter Green Tribute act for comfort, although Greeny, who had not aged well, really seemed to be enjoying himself.  Glad I saw that.

RIP Man of the World.

Red Kites - a Success Story

The striking silhouette of a red kite, soaring above a multi-story carpark in High Wycombe. 

This is how most of us will see these birds and if you spend much time driving on the M40 between West London and Birmingham you will certainly see a number of them.  They thrive on roadkill and, having been reintroduced into the Chilterns in 1989, that group have lost no time in adopting human road systems as routes for their own travel.

Four-hundred or more years ago, red kites lived throughout Britain and Ireland and were a common sight even in cities, Shakespeare wrote of them stealing underwear from clotheslines. Kites had and still have diverse appetites, eating carrion, insects, earthworms, small birds, rabbits, rodents and amphibians.  Where they used to scavenge on man-made rubbish and carrion they were often welcomed as useful in cleaning the streets.

 

But one hundred years ago the picture was very different.  By then they had been declared as 'vermin' and even had a bounty on their heads. They had been shot, trapped and poisoned out of existence by head-hunters, landowners, farmers and gamekeepers and their eggs were stolen by collectors.  Other birds of prey were treated with the same arrogant brutality, though most survived in larger numbers than the unfortunate red kites. Only a handful of kites were left in the whole of the British Isles, these were all in the West of Wales. 

 

Today the kites are back. Once they were fully protected, from 1950, the Welsh population  began to expand, though initially quite slowly.  DNA analysis a few years ago showed that the original handful of Welsh kites were all descended from a single female, indicating how precarious their position was.  Now the Welsh birds number in the low thousands, though for scientific purposes birds are usually counted in breeding pairs, so around 900 to 1,000 breeding pairs.  Non-breeding kites can travel long distances and are impossible to count.  

Birds from this successful Welsh population have been used to re-introduce the species to Eire, and Northern Ireland.  Once known in Ireland as 'cloth kites,' due to a propensity to incorporate pieces of pilfered rag into their nests, they were extinct by the turn of the 20th century.  A successful population has now been established in County Wicklow and Dublin. Re-introductions to County Down in Northern Ireland have also been successful and as kites have no concern for national borders these two populations have begun to emerge and expand.  

In England red kites have been re-introduced in groups, using birds originating in Spain and Scandinavia.  The birds were released in the Chilterns, Hertfordshire, Northamptonshire, Yorkshire, Gateshead, Northumberland and the Newcastle area and Grizedale Forest in Cumbria.  From these sites they have spread enthusiastically and if you keep your eyes open, there are kites to be seen gliding elegantly above every English county. 

The Scottish population was initially centred around release sites, the first of these in 1989, was at Black Isle near Inverness.  Others were in Dumfries and Galloway, Stirling-shire, Perthshire, Ross-shire, and near Aberdeen City.  These reintroductions have all been successful, though in places the birds are still being killed, sometimes by accident as when they eat poisoned bait left for foxes, but too often deliberately, by people who like killing things. 

There is no justification for killing kites, which are lightweight birds despite their 5-6 foot wingspans.  They are not strong hunters and feed manly on carrion, worms and insects, with small birds, rabbits, rats and mice if they happen to be able to catch them.  They are little threat to larger farm animals or pets. 

 

All the re-introduced groups have formed breeding populations and the total number in the UK today is around 2,000 pairs, according to the RSPB, who keep a close eye on them.  Still not a huge number of birds, but where they live, they are quite visible and not afraid to fly over towns and cities.  The first kite for 150 years was seen in London in 2006.  

This is a conservation success, unlike in much of Europe where they are declining.  The red kite is a European bird, with around 50,000 birds, few are found elsewhere.  From a handful of kites a hundred years ago, the British Isles is now home to more than 4,000 of these handsome birds, which is a significant percentage of the Total European population.  

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/red-kite/population-trends/

https://www.independent.co.uk/environment/shakespeares-red-kite-returns-to-london-after-an-absence-of-150-years-6111922.html

https://irelandswildlife.com/irish-red-kite-breeds-successfully-in-county-wicklow/?share=pocket

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/jul/20/red-kites-thriving-in-england-30-years-after-reintroduction

https://www.livingwithbirds.com/tweetapedia/21-facts-on-red-kite

https://www.irishnews.com/lifestyle/2017/11/25/news/take-on-nature-let-s-go-find-a-kite-1195097/



The Fairweather Gardener - Compost Bin, the Cons

Compost is a constant concern here, I only have space for one plastic bin and a small woodpile. The bin retains moisture and gets cuttings, weeds, trimmings and kitchen scraps and houses plenty of little red worms but also tens of hundreds of big green slugs. 

Ok I haven't got close enough to actually count them but I take my life in my hands when I heave off the lid, struggling with the weight. I feel I have to feed them every day or they will emerge and devour the garden, which is quite small. 

Help!

When May was July, then June Becomes March - The Fairweather Gardener

The sixth of June feels more like the sixth of March and I take full responsibility. 

Paeony, I can never get a good photo of these flowers, 

must be to do with the spectrum of their colour. 

I should try different equipment - yes I know,
a bad photographer always blames the camera!.

Foxgloves au naturel, self seeded. 

Beloved of bumble bees,
their tallest spire is taller than 

me, so well over five feet.

Red Hot Pokers have done better

than ever, 14 spires so far, but they 

weren't meant to flower until

July/August.

However the month of May was hot,  sunny,   and  every- thing has flowered including one of my cacti, which normally wait until high summer.  Will there be anything left in flower by July?

I can probably rely on the lavender, valerian and my red, white and pink everlasting geraniums. They're  now four years old and have never stopped flowering, some stay outside all year, a couple come indoors for the coldest winter weather.  

More enthusiastic than ever before have been the red-hot pokers, the purple clematis, self seeded foxgloves and opium poppies. The tulips were lovely but mostly over by the start of May which is very early, their  bulbs are now drying out quietly beside the garage. The Clematis Montana, paeonies and the apple blossom came and went very fast, it was probably too dry for them. I expect I won't have many apples this year.

Then there's that rose. Ok there are four rose plants in the garden but only one is worth mentioning, the giant rambler.  It's flowering spectacularly even despite being given a very late prune in early March. This powerful plant grows like billy-oh and I love it! Its masses of soft, white flowers dominate the pergola and threaten to demolish the flimsy rose arch. They're scented and even I can smell them slightly; anosmia may be one symptom of Covid 19, but I've had it for years without ever being tested.

I planted out my courgette plants last week.  There are only two of them, a neighbour had put a row of sad little seedlings in small pots onto their garden wall with an invitation to help ourselves, so I kindly took in two unwanted orphans.  I potted them on and they've been growing happily on the conservatory windowsill in the wonderful May sunshine. 

Then I treated them severely by potting them out into a zinc tub in the garden, with fresh compost mixed with organic plant feed. They perked up after thirty-six hours and one even produced its first flower, at which point the weather decided it was still March. So it's my fault! 

Will there be any courgettes? Who knows, I'm not carrying a fifty litre tub full of wet compost and sad little plants indoors and then outside again if the sun comes out.  Sorry if this amounts to courgette abuse but they'll have to take their chances! 

Strip Jack by Ian Rankin

Not initially a 'whodunnit,' more a 'what has he actually done?' Spoiler - it's a he! Not much of a spoiler though. Flows well, plenty of interesting characters. Strip Jack's well enough written, as expected from Ian Rankin, not my favourite though.
I'm trying to read the Rebus novels in order - a lockdown project - but have already slipped, I read book 5 before starting book 1; will next have to read book 7 as I don't yet have a copy of book 6. Oh well, as Peter Green would say...
Strip Jack is a lot less gory than other Rebus novels I've read. I read a few of the later ones, in a random order several years ago and always remembered the atmosphere and gruesome nature of the stories. This book also lacks some of the atmosphere associated with the series, though scenes set in a tiny B&B and in a detention unit for the criminally insane are engrossingly detailed.
There are just one or two minor glitches in places, repetition of things we already know and, in cinematic terms, a couple of continuity slips. Maybe it was rushed to publication just a week too soon! Note to self - must remember to take off my editing/proofreading hat when trying to enjoy novels which have already been published, and years ago at that!

Landfill by Tim Dee - Book Review

First we must get one thing clear, they are not seagulls they are gulls! They have been encouraged by human activity to live in our towns and inhabit our space, even spaces we don't care about, such as town centre rooftops and landfill sites.

This remarkable, poetic and sorrowful book covers Tim Dee's deep affection, admiration and concern for gulls. Everything you never realised you need to know about these beautiful, slightly alien looking birds, Tim can tell you, or he has a friend who can. He quotes from many erudite enthusiasts. For a start there are many more species of gull than you thought, there are more sub-species than even the most expert gull watchers can identify, and they are still evolving.

An extraordinary chapter tells of Tim's day out at Pitsea landfill site with the North Thames Gull Group. He helps the gullers to net hundreds of gulls feeding on the garbage and ring them before re-release. His description of just handling these birds, the unfamiliarity and intimacy of them, is moving and remarkable.

There are literary gulls, Iceland gulls, feisty gulls, London gulls, ringed gulls, landfill gulls, Bristol gulls, inland gulls and even Jonathan Livingston Seagulls.

Towards the end the book diverges from gulls and landfill and goes in search of a Madagascar nightjar, whose call has never been recorded. While this short chapter seems at first out of place it's a forgivable diversion. The delight of the experience shines through.

The author ends with his encounter with an Iceland gull, near his home.

I could quote from the book, but I wouldn't know where to stop, the writing is beautiful. If you think you don't like gulls, you're really missing a lot.

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith - Part 2

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith, Clerical Officer (logistics).

Day 23   -    DC phoned 999 but they said theft of toilet paper from our shed wasn't an emergency.  So I took my phone and called that other number and insisted they must investigate the burglary.  I was called a hoarder and accused of wasting police time! I mean!  Really!!  We pay our taxes and I've always supported the police.  And to cap it all the sodding mould has spread to the wall by the stairs and we're not allowed to go to B and Q for anti-mould spray and anyway Hilary over the back says they're closed.  At least Boris is out of hospital.  Maybe he can sort the police out.

Day 27   -   Clapping for the NHS on our doorstep is a good thing, we did that last night. Heard the neighbour banging pots or something but we couldn't see him because HE STILL HASN'T CUT THE SODDING HEDGE!  It's not as if he's got anything else to do, he was laid off a month ago. DC called him a name, but quite quietly so I don't think he'll have heard it over all his banging...

Day 29  -  I have heard that people aren't just clapping for the NHS but for all essential services. And that includes supermarket workers, so I may not bother next week. Our sodding Tesco delivery was 3 days late and had NO toilet paper, no cake flour and no oranges, garlic granules or custard powder. I can't remember what I was going to bake with that lot, so maybe it doesn't matter, apart from the toilet paper. We're down to 37 rolls, I've hidden some of them in the laundry basket, underneath some towels and the rest in the tumble dryer, that should fool the sodding burglars! I now have to put up the rotary thing in the garden to dry the washing, but at least the weather is warmer than when all this started.

Day 30  -  I'm so embarrassed! DC has just told me what sodding means... I thought it meant muddy, or messy. I suppose it does in a way. Oh dear. 

Ultracrepidarian - Word of the Day

An Ultracrepidarian is someone who expresses firm opinions on subjects which are quite outside their field of knowledge. 

Now who could I be thinking of?

And yes I had to look it up! No shame in that, the word is now within my field of knowledge.

The Fairweather Gardener - April under Covid 19

Heather, tulips, muscari and, fritillaries.

April in the garden, under semi-lockdown.  I do know how lucky we are to have a garden when so many are stuck in flats.  Sitting out here writing is splendid! Everything seems to be flowering, so that and the sunshine has dragged me outdoors.  The Heather has been in bloom since November and is going a bit brown, but several small bumblebees are still finding something to enjoy in its tiny, faded-pink cups.


 The little Tete-a-tete daffs are over.  I’ve just deadheaded them, but the taller
Daffs and Narcissi which I bunged in the earth any-old-where last winter are flowering merrily, most of them seem to be multi-petalled ones and some are two-tone as well, orange and cream or sunflower yellow and white.  Never had those before, they’re very pretty, but heavy heads are dangling on over-long stems. It the prevailing sea-wind gets up it will demolish them.  Life’s too short to stake daffs!



Also flowering are things I had assumed would be dead, having done well last year.  Osteospermums I think they’re called.  Looked them up – Cape Daisies, that’s easier!  They were a birthday present from Josie and it never occurred me that they could carry on, but they’ve hardly stopped flowering since. Should I prune them?  Some are reddish-purple with black centres, others are quite pale, with pretty mauve edges and, again, the back centres.

Rosemary

A small blue tit is serenading from the tree behind my bench, but I don’t think I’m the object of his song!  Amazing what loud song some tiny birds have.  Also have chattering sparrows in the semi-background – sparrows are not really background birds, they seldom blend!  Starlings chirping and whistling from the gutter and a pair of pigeons being enthusiastic with each other on the neighbour’s mossy roof.



Rosemary still has its soft mauve flowers, to the joy of small bees.  Grape Hyacinths (muscari to you!) are everywhere, I put quite a few of them in last autumn, may have overdone it, their leaves apparently grow up to 18 inches long - I nearly measured them, managed to restrain myself!  Like the Snowflakes, which are finished, their foliage is swamping other plants.  I’ve been trimming both of them quite brutally.

Kerria

The red Wallflowers which I nearly threw away last year are now blooming a beautiful fiery scarlet, next to the sunny faces of Dandelion and no they are not weeds, I love them! So do the bees. Marigolds, in marigold orange, are starting to put in their annual appearance and  my Bluebells are up, mostly the Spanish variety but still gorgeous.  Fritillaries with their extraordinary checkered flowers are almost over, the bumblebees have been enjoying those too.



Planted a lot of Tulips last autumn in a trough, after watching Monty Don, who said plant them in layers, the don’t mind being crowded.  They’re coming up now but don’t seem keen to put on a mass display, which is what I was hoping for, some are already open while others are barely above soil level.



Kerria Japonica has been in bloom for several weeks now, very pretty in hues of apricot and above it the Clematis Montana is absolutely smothered in buds as it in turn smothers the garage, so I’ll get my mass flowering there!  After it’s flowered I will have to prune it or we’ll never get the garage doors open.

Camellia and forsythia

Round the front of the house, the rich pink Camellia is past its best.  Its massed flowers are going softly brown and papery now, but the Forsythia is quite splendid.  Beside those two the Skimmia Japonica is palely loitering.  I have a Mahonia in a pot, I might plant it next to the Skimmia for a bit of colour and drama



On the patio right up against the house, various things have been rammed into pots sometimes with strange bedfellows.  Cyclamen in their little pots are almost over, big, rotund seed-heads are forming, I must try to propagate some of those.  In flower are more tulips, scarlet geraniums which have almost kept flowering continuously for three years now, more Cape Daisies, more Fritillaries,  who share a large blue tub with a huge, self-seeded Foxglove, we’ll see what colour that flowers later.

Finally and unexpectedly, I have a pink and paler-pink-striped Freesia and a white Freesia is about to bloom, which I had entirely forgotten I shoved into the pot with one of the perpetual geraniums two years ago.  I had a bunch of Freesias for my wedding posy – I don’t do bouquets!



                                                                           *            

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith - Part One

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith, Clerical Officer (logistics).


Day one – The freezer is full so we won’t starve and there are 40 packs of toilet rolls in the shed. We're prepared for all emergencies. I’ve got lots of stuff planned so we won’t get bored either. Old fashioned spring-cleaning for starters. This won’t be too bad, we get along tolerably well and DC can still make me laugh. He has ordered some Scotch Beef to be delivered, from Scotland. He says it won’t come for a fortnight so we’ll have space in the freezer by then. Not sure if this is hygienic.


Day two – Boris has announced that this will go on until after Easter, which is only 3 weeks so no problem. It’s not as if either of us are missing work.  DC’s freelance and mainly can work from home. I was thinking of going part time and now the office has closed entirely. Nobody needs our filing cabinet and telephone sanitising services apparently, which seems ridiculous at a time like this. But maybe this is a good test for full retirement. Cleaned all the windows.


Day four – Decided not to write every day. Shampooed all the carpets. Had to leave all the windows open to let them dry, luckily it's been sunny, although the wind is cold. DC said why not do one room a day rather than all of them at once, but having finally got the machine to work I decided to get it over with. Machine very noisy, I think I’ve gone a bit deaf. Still it’s done now. Son in London phoned, couldn’t hear a word. DC spoke to him.



Day 5 – Boris has announced that social distancing should be two metres not the previous four feet, which is puzzling. DC says why can’t they at least stick to using the same units of measurement and shouldn’t it all be in feet, since Brexit.  Still, we have other problems. The neighbour's hedge is starting to block the light in our front window, I had to sit in the dining room to read my paper.  Tesco delivery, we’ve had a regular Tuesday slot for the past two years, but it’s Wednesday today, I call that a disgrace! At least the order’s mostly right but no toilet paper, no spuds, and instead of broccoli they’ve given us turnips! Never cooked turnips in my life, maybe try them tomorrow. Carpets still a bit wet in places.


Day 7 – Trump says it’s all under control in the States although the news says 1,000 cases just in New York. At least Boris is distancing with his news conferences. The journalists are spaced out now and Nadine Doris has caught it, she’s nowhere to be seen. Wonder if she infected anyone. We tried the turnips, I boiled them and boiled them but they were just sour and fibrous, a bit like eating tree roots. Think my hearing‘s more or less come back, but the house is still a bit damp.


Day 9 – DC decided to make the heating more efficient by bleeding all the radiators.  This black gunge sprayed out and went everywhere including into DC’s face.  I had to laugh but now I need to clean the living room carpet again, and the window and the wall.  Son in London phoned, his place of work has closed down, at least he can stop going on the crowded tube, breathing in all those viruses.


Day 12 – Tesco delivery. Only half of the right things came, still no toilet paper or potatoes. Also, instead of 4 tins of baked beans they sent one tin of bortolli beans, no idea what those are, and they sent more bloody turnips! I can’t get through to complain. Our daily walk takes us past some horses in a field, I might see if they like turnips. DC is trying his hand at some cooking, maybe he can do something with those beans. There’s some mould in the corner of our bedroom. Tried it with bleach and now the carpet’s stained. Bother!


Day 13 – Boris has caught it! If he dies, who takes over? Gove sounds the most sensible. I hope it’s not that Cummings, he looks so weasley and he wants to sacrifice the pensioners.  Have finished all the spring cleaning now, even cleaned the oven, not very well but will have to do. Not sure what to do next.  DC has taken over the cooking since his work has dried up and it’s too cold to start on the garden.  We had mashed turnips with sausages, not too bad with enough ketchup, but will need more of that soon, wonder what Tesco will send instead.


Day 19 – The Scotch Beef may arrive today. DC says he can track it online. Apparently our driver is called Nikolai and he has 397 deliveries before he gets to us. I know it’s a long way from Scotland to the South Coast, but that’s going to take him until next week! I wonder where he sleeps.

Day 22 – Disaster! The shed was broken into while we were out on our walk, DC said the buggers must have been lurking behind next door’s hedge waiting for us to go out. DC’s asked next door before to cut his hedge but he's not bothered.  The buggers left the Flymo, and son’s mountain bike, but they took ALL OUR TOILET ROLLS!  Now we’ve only got the 15 packs stored under son’s bed. 

Life in the Time of Corona

All our thoughts, and lives, are currently full of Covid 19,  not to be confused with 19 large, intelligent, black birds, that's corvid 19 or a murder of crows.

I've not come to terms with the effects of the pandemic, I can't yet write about something so immediate and so close to home. Trouble is, I'm having difficulty concentrating on writing about anything else as well and there's an article I really need to get on with.

I have already begun writing about disasters. A short story about flooding in Yorkshire and the beginning of a story about the effects of climate change, also involving flooding.

I'll put the Yorkshire story here soon.

New Header Photo

Street art is very transient, this vanished a couple of years ago...

Good writing week...

I mean, I've had a good writing week, a good fortnight actually!  Two short stories tackled and an article for publication.

Completed the first short story which had its first/second draft last month, inspired by combining two stories on the morning's news.  The news is so often depressing, but two stories rang some creative bells for me. Terrible films  of flooded homes were immediately followed by the appearance of Alison Cronin, founder of Monkey World primate rescue in Dorset, with her appeal for people to never buy marmosets as pets. Marmosets are tiny monkeys, sentient creatures which need specialist care and should never be kept in small cages in peoples living rooms. So my story evolved, about a woman who had marmosets in her living room, and had to save them when her home was flooded.

The second story is part way through but I'm a bit stumped for now. It came from a writers' group prompt - write a story 2-3,000 words, containing at least six of the following:-


Wizard of Oz,  John Lennon,  Death Valley,  an accountant,     27degreees C,     a Dalek.

Blackpool Tower,   the Sun newspaper,  Gollum and the song,  “I dreamed a dream.”

I continued with the theme of flooding, and have managed to get in eight of the required elements, while creating an apocalyptic scenario with galloping global warming, plus two good characters. What I now need is an actual plot line for the characters to follow.  It will come.... I hope!

The article is about the Local Marine Conservation Zone. It's a fascinating subject which I really enjoyed researching. Should soon be published online and maybe in the local press. 

Black Dogs by Ian McEwan - book review

I've tried to read Black Dogs before and never got into it, this time I did. I even managed to finish it and understand why I've had difficulty before. Ok the plot line goes backwards and forewords in time, that's not the problem. The narrative skips between different characters' versions of the story but that's not the problem either. 

It's a clever book, cleverly and very self-consciously written and the self-consciousness of the author is embodied in the character of Jeremy, the supposed narrator.  This is what irritates me about the story. This character seems superfluous but he forces himself into the narrative as if this is his story, it really isn't.

It's the story of June and Bernard who are Jeremy's in-laws.  We experience their story through the author, via Jeremy and I felt so distanced by this device that I really couldn't enjoy their experiences even though they are very evocative in many places.  I wanted to stay in their minds, not be constantly dragged back to Jeremy's every-day domesticities and anxieties, which I really couldn't care less about.  I suppose for someone who could empathise with Jeremy it could work, I just found him an unsympathetic character. 

I do expect a lot from Ian McEwan's writing because he is so damn good. I know because he often does far better than this. Black Dogs was only his fifth book, but came after the Innocent, which is so much better.