Half A Year In

It rained at the beginning of the week- steadily for a night and a morning- and now, looking around, you wouldn't know there'd ever been a drought. The grass which was dead, dead, dead a month ago is lush and green.

We have gulls, pigeons, jackdaws, magpies, starlings (Look up and there are swallows) but the only small birds we've seen in the garden are sparrows- that is- until earlier this week- when a robin showed up.

We moved here in March. We know what an Eastbourne Spring and an Eastbourne summer are like, now we get to find out about autumn and winter.

Noted In Passing

I flick through the online newspapers. It surprises me how much space the Guardian is giving to loyal sentimentality. You expect it of the Mail, but the Guardian...

Mind you, one of the Guardian columnists provided links to a couple of irreverent US sites- whose content I enjoyed inordinately.

Are the media laying it on too thick? i suppose it depends on your tolerance for rich cream sauces. Me, I'm craving something plain, something toothsome...

I'm more interested in what happens next- that is- after the obsequies are done with. Is this the great watershed moment in the history of Britain that everyone wants it to be, or....?

King Charles doesn't like signing things. He has twice now been caught on camera being petulant while doing what is- after all- his job- once because an ink-stand got in his way, a second time because his fountain pen leaked. He's under terrific pressure at the moment so he gets a free pass but he better not carry on like this when the weather clears.

My eye is snagged by the pageantry- the tabards, the uniforms, the pall. Pretty colours. Flat, medieval designs.

I have no plans for watching the funeral...