I am trying to pen (type) this account of Brit insular matters with a kitten crawling all over me and trying to be cuddly. In fact, on Thursday morning I woke up with a sharp jab on the tip of my nose and the discovery that, as a result of being swatted by a little paw, I was bleeding profusely. I had to dash to the bathroom and drip gore into the basin for a while, with little missiles trying to trip me up en route.
Puh-lease, all you Brit-types. Tell your mothers and your fathers and your brothers and your sisters and your aunts and uncles and your cousins and your friends that there is a batch of nearly-ripe kittens waiting to be plucked! (In fact, most of them have been sold already, but they have to wait until they are 13 weeks old in 2 weeks time before being collected.) One or two at a time and they are delightful, but in a marauding pack they tend to be overbearing!
The rest of the day was a bit of a washout, too. England did what it is famous for. It rained. With enthusiasm, and the talent born of long practice. The Russian tortoises had to be caught and transferred to an indoor environment before they drowned. The bunny and hens were not impressed. Horses huddled in their shelter. The local pooch pack – all four – looked at us reproachfully. They wanted us to turn the rain off; ten minutes ago, if not sooner. It was chilly, too!
The parrot didn’t really mind one way or the other.
Friday, by way of contrast, was warm and sunny from the word go. I had a jog to the river dressed in, and then simply stayed in, baggies and T-shirt plus Zola Budd-style running shoes J for most of the day. I commissioned a bicycle for use, took MBH shopping in the 4X4, and helped to transport a boarding cat and bunny back to their home in a nearby town. On Saturday morning we are due to go to a bar coot sale. Amazing what one can get at them – sometimes even the car to go with the boot! Or even boots which have little to do with cars.
So much to photograph, and I haven’t. Sowwy, mea culpa, and all that …