This Is Not A
BLOG!
Date: 21/08/05
Everything In The Garden...
During last winter, I promised myself that I'd spend more time out
of doors this summer.
Well, I've managed to keep that promise to some extent, which is
one of the reasons why updates to this site have been a bit rare lately
(the other reasons being laziness and lack of energy after the day's
work).
This morning, I had some things to do in the house. Like, cleaning
out the CPU fan and heatsink on this here PC (Yuk!), and doing a bit of
minor cleaning around the place while self-same PC was being put
through its fortnightly routine of adware- and spyware-scanning,
virus-scanning (where the hell did those Trojans come from?) and a
defrag.
It was the perfect late-summer's day - sunshine, but a pleasant
light breeze to take the blunt edge off the warmth - so I decided to
spend some time sitting in the garden. I dragged my somewhat
uncomfortable deck-chair out and sat in the shade of the hedge - the
one I'd spent all of yesterday cutting.
It's a nice place to sit. As I say, it's in the shade, and because
there's a thick hedge between me and the pavement outside, no-one
passing knows that I'm there. Not that I ever hear anything revelatory,
mind. But I live in hope of that someday.
I read a little. I tried to push on through one of the more difficult
parts of Stanisław Lem's Imaginary Magnitude, but reality
kept intruding. 'Reality' in this case meaning a wide variety of
extraneous noise: the small cement mixer being run by the guy across
the road as he adds yet another strange structure to his backyard; the
skirling of someone's hedge-trimmer somewhere round the back; the
patter-patter-patter of the obnoxious, verminous dachshunds who inhabit
the house behind mine, and who make my life a trial with their
incessant yapping, as they pad around inside the large shed which
constitutes their living room, play area and (for all I know) brothel;
the sound of nine- and ten-year-old boys pretending to be police as
they dash around on their bikes and scooters (not a realistic game,
this - none of them has shot a Brazilian electrician as far as I know);
and, of course, the cars. Mostly sad little eighteen-year-old
needledicks who try to cover the inadequacies of themselves and their
vehicles (elderly Vauxhalls and Peugeots usually) by playing rap very
loudly (as a projection of an 'image', it's about as credible as Tim
Westwood).
After a while, I gave up on the literature and sat watching the
bees and butterflies as they buzzed and fluttered around the buddleia,
which in turn was giving off a faint but beguiling perfume. I saw what
was either a honey bee or a rather large fly land on a leaf of the cotoneaster
(I think that's what it's called; my usual term of reference for it is 'bloody
thing that won't stop growing') just behind me, and sit there
grooming itself for some minutes. Agile creature: being able to use
one's front legs to scratch one's back must be considered quite a plus.
At least, I assume it was just fettling itself: I don't have
enough in-depth knowledge regarding the prevalence of auto-eroticism
amongst insects.
I carried on watching the buddleia, and got the thought
that it might be nice to have a few photographs of the butterflies, to
keep as a reminder of warmer days during the winter months. So I dashed
inside for my camera, put the batteries in, and plonked myself down in
my chair again...
...and didn't see another butterfly thereafter. Fickle creatures!
After about half an hour, I gave up and brought the camera and the
chair back indoors.
The weather's about to turn. It's going to rain for a few days, and
be pretty windy with it by all accounts (though not for too long, I
hope; there's a wedding in the family next Saturday). At least I took
advantage of it while I could.
