I saw this in my garden this morning:
It looked very strange and I wasn’t entirely sure until I looked it up, whether it was in fact two bumblebees mating. The white-tailed ones are busily bumbling in and out of the space in the roof, and I am now waiting for Holly to get home. We are waiting dinner for her, and of course her train is delayed. I’m starving!
Sooo – today I wrote the last verse of a poem I’m working on called ‘Hounslow West’. It’s about the place where I grew up, and it’s a parody of Betjeman’s famous poem on Slough:
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough
– it isn’t fit for humans now
It always seems to work best if I do poetry in the mornings and prose in the afternoons; so after a spell in the garden planting the seeds and petunia plants I unexpectedly acquired at Riverside and bemoaning the slow progress of the grass seed, I hied me to the shops to enprovision the house in advance of daughter’s arrival and then back to the laptop-face for some prose. The pattern seems to be short stories followed by a chapter of the novel, following which it is usually time for dinner.
Except today.
Excuse me. I have to go now to prepare the pizza and salad which we will eventually eat, East Midlands Trains permitting.
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 