This is the longest period of warm/hot weather I have experienced. Mid to high twenties every day for the last two weeks. Drink plenty of water is the answer. Stay indoors. Do nothing!!
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Monday, 21 June 2010
Moved again
We are now living in Hangman's Lane not far from our most recent address in Briary Lane. It took us about thirty minutes to move our belongings and two bicycles. Not bad.
The visible wildlife in the garden so far include a rabbit and a squirrel plus assorted birds - mostly blackbirds. The day's warmth is increasing and at 10.19 a.m I am indoors hiding from the sun. Not a daywalker.
The search continues for a permanent dwelling. I fancy Welwyn Garden City, Stevenage or Hitchin. Tomorrow we are visiting St. Alban's. Maybe we'll both like it.
The visible wildlife in the garden so far include a rabbit and a squirrel plus assorted birds - mostly blackbirds. The day's warmth is increasing and at 10.19 a.m I am indoors hiding from the sun. Not a daywalker.
The search continues for a permanent dwelling. I fancy Welwyn Garden City, Stevenage or Hitchin. Tomorrow we are visiting St. Alban's. Maybe we'll both like it.
Friday, 18 June 2010
Strange bird
We both saw an unusual bird in the garden of our current temporary domicile. The image is fading already.
Roughly top to bottom - there is a language convention associated with parts of a bird but I don't know what it is - strong short beak; small white tuft on head; green stripe on body; white dot or spot near its bottom.
Memory decay is now present. I don't remember the body colours. There was a blackbird beside the strange bird. it, the blackbird, was smaller.
Must get a film for the camera.
Roughly top to bottom - there is a language convention associated with parts of a bird but I don't know what it is - strong short beak; small white tuft on head; green stripe on body; white dot or spot near its bottom.
Memory decay is now present. I don't remember the body colours. There was a blackbird beside the strange bird. it, the blackbird, was smaller.
Must get a film for the camera.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Well warm
We've been in England for over a week now. The bluebells are still blooming in the woods; wisteria still hangs blue flowers from house walls and gable ends - although my botanical wife tells me they are fading.
There's always a hurdle or two to clamber over when shifting countries. We had heard opening a Bank account was one of the hardest and (guess what?) it is.
Yes, yes just your passports and a bit of paper tying you to the address you say you're at and that'll be acceptable said the young man who made us an appointment for the next day with a well known high street bank.
No, no, that's no use said the young lady the next day when we turned up sweating from the bus journey - did I mention Hertfordshire is 'enjoying' temperatures of 21,22,23,24? The passports are fine but the piece of paper - an invoice from Avis, wasn't. Since she was adamant that we could proceed no further we left the bank.
Still every cloud has a silver lining, eh? We went to Muffin Break - oh sorry did you think that was just a kiwi thing? - and had a flat white and a chocolate chip cookie.
Now, it was surely always hard getting money out of bank but putting money in?
When I got home I did a bit more research about the phrase money laundering that was mentioned in the bank conversation. Apparently the banks and building societies, all financial institutions have been charged with vigilance over alleged money laundering accounts. As usual the innocent are caught up in the safeguards or overkill as one reviewer commented.
Luckily we have money with us and can survive until we can satisfy our putative account giver that we are who we say we are and we live where we say we live and that'll be an end to it.
Cripes, there's me bus.
There's always a hurdle or two to clamber over when shifting countries. We had heard opening a Bank account was one of the hardest and (guess what?) it is.
Yes, yes just your passports and a bit of paper tying you to the address you say you're at and that'll be acceptable said the young man who made us an appointment for the next day with a well known high street bank.
No, no, that's no use said the young lady the next day when we turned up sweating from the bus journey - did I mention Hertfordshire is 'enjoying' temperatures of 21,22,23,24? The passports are fine but the piece of paper - an invoice from Avis, wasn't. Since she was adamant that we could proceed no further we left the bank.
Still every cloud has a silver lining, eh? We went to Muffin Break - oh sorry did you think that was just a kiwi thing? - and had a flat white and a chocolate chip cookie.
Now, it was surely always hard getting money out of bank but putting money in?
When I got home I did a bit more research about the phrase money laundering that was mentioned in the bank conversation. Apparently the banks and building societies, all financial institutions have been charged with vigilance over alleged money laundering accounts. As usual the innocent are caught up in the safeguards or overkill as one reviewer commented.
Luckily we have money with us and can survive until we can satisfy our putative account giver that we are who we say we are and we live where we say we live and that'll be an end to it.
Cripes, there's me bus.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
New country
Hertfordshire, England.
Arrived on Tuesday morning, 11th May 2010 to a hung Parliament.
Woke up on Wednesday morning to a coalition Government of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats.
On the plane I watched:
Shutter Island; Assassins and Bodyguards.
I watched more but I have forgotten already because I can't think with plane-brain fog.
Better sign off already.
Arrived on Tuesday morning, 11th May 2010 to a hung Parliament.
Woke up on Wednesday morning to a coalition Government of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats.
On the plane I watched:
Shutter Island; Assassins and Bodyguards.
I watched more but I have forgotten already because I can't think with plane-brain fog.
Better sign off already.
Monday, 10 May 2010
Friday, 23 April 2010
Death of a rat
There's a thing. I didn't know I had in in me. Hughie the Rat killer. Here's how it happened. Treasure of my Heart called me to the window and pointed over to where Renny the Manx used to investigate interesting scents in our garden.
'Look at the little rabbit,' she said.
'Nah,' says I, 'that ain't no rabbit, that's a little hedgehog.'
Well, as they say in all the worst anecdotes, no sooner were the words out of my mouth than the little hedgehog got up from crouch position and revealed itself to be a rat. A sick rat. Staggering around, drunken-like.
'Oh Lordy,' said Treasure of my Heart. 'It's been poisoned.'
I agreed whole heartedly since it was us who had poisoned it. How we jump to such conclusions. That this wretched creature, could be other than the same rat in the wall who woke us up with his or her gnawing skills in the early hours, never entered our minds.
'Mighty hunter,' cried Treasure of my Heart, 'Do something.'
The taste of the hunt in my mouth I did something. I fetched my trusty bow and arrows and slunk round the side of the house to confront the foule beest who was performing the rat version of the dying swan on the lawn. I notched the first arrow in the string and fired. Missed. By a whisker (not a cliché). I quickly - see me? When you're looking at me you're looking at Hiawatha) - strung the second arrow, took aim fired and missed again.
Ratty broke through the poison delirium and ran for the undergrowth. I prodded the gorse for a bit with no result. Ratty had, as they say in all the worst anecdotes, gone to ground.
Twenty minutes later Treasure of my Heart yelled that the groggy rodent had tumbled out of the gorse and back on to the lawn. Outside your intrepid bowman strode again. Missing once more on the first shot I determined to move closer to this vicious, though strangely handsome, creature and shoot point blank. This time I had the loathsome, yet strangely, alluring, cuddly-toy of a critter right where I wanted it. I shot downwards in what archery folks call the instinctive posture - which is to say not standing upright, side on and pulling the bow to its full extent before letting fly at a target in the middle of a field in Agincourt, but hunched over, awkward as all get up.
This time I did hit something. I hit the hard ground beside Roland. The arrow, having only a blunt field point, not a broadhead, bounced back knocking my specs off and catching me below my eye. It will turn black I am convinced.
I would like to report at this time that I gave up trying to kill my prey and took him to the Vet with instructions to heal and no expense spared - but no. You know this story has an ending given away in the title of this piece.
Requiescat In Pace, Ratso. You got to breathe a bit longer due to my incompetence - but there is nothing that could stop the progress of that poison and your death would have been excruciating. Besides if you had got back into the house you would have expired in the wall and begun to stink like one of your kin did last year. Two weeks later a procession of blowflies would be escaping from the crack in the ceiling and dropping drowsily on to us as we watch films on the PC.
The swift thump I gave you with the shovel was a better end than the farcical posturings of a Robin Hood with glasses.
'Look at the little rabbit,' she said.
'Nah,' says I, 'that ain't no rabbit, that's a little hedgehog.'
Well, as they say in all the worst anecdotes, no sooner were the words out of my mouth than the little hedgehog got up from crouch position and revealed itself to be a rat. A sick rat. Staggering around, drunken-like.
'Oh Lordy,' said Treasure of my Heart. 'It's been poisoned.'
I agreed whole heartedly since it was us who had poisoned it. How we jump to such conclusions. That this wretched creature, could be other than the same rat in the wall who woke us up with his or her gnawing skills in the early hours, never entered our minds.
'Mighty hunter,' cried Treasure of my Heart, 'Do something.'
The taste of the hunt in my mouth I did something. I fetched my trusty bow and arrows and slunk round the side of the house to confront the foule beest who was performing the rat version of the dying swan on the lawn. I notched the first arrow in the string and fired. Missed. By a whisker (not a cliché). I quickly - see me? When you're looking at me you're looking at Hiawatha) - strung the second arrow, took aim fired and missed again.
Ratty broke through the poison delirium and ran for the undergrowth. I prodded the gorse for a bit with no result. Ratty had, as they say in all the worst anecdotes, gone to ground.
Twenty minutes later Treasure of my Heart yelled that the groggy rodent had tumbled out of the gorse and back on to the lawn. Outside your intrepid bowman strode again. Missing once more on the first shot I determined to move closer to this vicious, though strangely handsome, creature and shoot point blank. This time I had the loathsome, yet strangely, alluring, cuddly-toy of a critter right where I wanted it. I shot downwards in what archery folks call the instinctive posture - which is to say not standing upright, side on and pulling the bow to its full extent before letting fly at a target in the middle of a field in Agincourt, but hunched over, awkward as all get up.
This time I did hit something. I hit the hard ground beside Roland. The arrow, having only a blunt field point, not a broadhead, bounced back knocking my specs off and catching me below my eye. It will turn black I am convinced.
I would like to report at this time that I gave up trying to kill my prey and took him to the Vet with instructions to heal and no expense spared - but no. You know this story has an ending given away in the title of this piece.
Requiescat In Pace, Ratso. You got to breathe a bit longer due to my incompetence - but there is nothing that could stop the progress of that poison and your death would have been excruciating. Besides if you had got back into the house you would have expired in the wall and begun to stink like one of your kin did last year. Two weeks later a procession of blowflies would be escaping from the crack in the ceiling and dropping drowsily on to us as we watch films on the PC.
The swift thump I gave you with the shovel was a better end than the farcical posturings of a Robin Hood with glasses.
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