Predator and Prey

A male blackbird flattens himself in the flowerbed, spreads his wings to make himself look big and holds the pose so long I wonder if he's died. But He hasn't. he's watching the sky. I can see his little orange bill pointing up over his shoulder.

He's seen a hawk.

No, a pair of hawks.

Home From Home

We were driving into Tonbridge yesterday morning; it was a bright, sunny day,  and I could see the North Downs rising up behind the town and I thought "I know this place, I like it. Why it's almost as if it were home."

I got another ripple of the same feeling listening to the Kentish accents in Lidl.

Ailz put a post up on Facebook yesterday saying how she wishes she could sell the house in Oldham and relocate permanently. But that's not so much about how lovely Kent is and more about how her mother keeps scratching away at her self esteem. Next time we go north we're taking a day or a couple of days to be with Odi while she's in hospital in Liverpool having her third baby. "But that's not fair," says Dot- meaning, I suppose, that we should be spending all the time we're not in Kent sitting in her frowsty living room listening to her litanies of self pity.

I tried to imagine myself in Dot's shoes last night, thinking as she thinks, feeling as she feels, wanting what she wants. I'm afraid it sent me to sleep.

Other Bits And Pieces

My mother made a circuit of the kitchen garden yesterday using her zimmer frame. We watched from a distance but didn't hover. We figured she could do it- and she did.

The men's semi-finals were worth watching. One of the BBC commentators got my goat by referring to Djokovic/Del Potro as the "hors d'oeuvre" to Murray/Janowitcz. Bah! The world no 1 is nobody's hors d'oeuvre and, besides, Djokovic/Del Potro was by far the better match. I hate how partisan the BBC is. Even McEnroe feels he has to join in and boost our fragile little islander egos.

I took a call in the evening from Cousin Jeremy. He'll be visiting in August (from the States). He and my mother and a person called John whom I've never met are the last survivors of their generation.