observation

A new family arrives in the village. We pass two of them unloading a van: a dumpy middle-aged man and a slender teenage boy; they struggle with a battered and grubby looking sofa.  I thought at first they had loaded it into the van to take it to the dump it looked so rough. He smiles and I say hello. As we pass by, Sharon mumbles something about him looking "very working-class". I smile. 

 

Spindle...

Spindle's boyfriend is at her house again. Spindle, our octogenarian and emaciated neighbour - hence the nickname - has been with the new chap a few months now. Rumour has it that she is something of a black widow, wooing elderly men to marry her, presumably with the intention of outliving them. Having seen the new chap a couple of times now he looks decrepit - 'knackered' as Sharon puts it.

The overnight stays are a more recent development and conjure some disturbing images. The sight of her in shorts is unsettling enough; but the thought of her shagging the life out of him to speed his demise is too much to bear. It's simply wrong!

To make matters worse, it has not gone unnoticed that when chap stays over she puts her outside light on; it might not be red but one has the feeling that it serves the same function in letting the hamlet know what's going on.

As yet we've been spared the sounds of them banging; but it's bloody quiet here and with calm and balmy summer nights due that dubious pleasure may yet arrive.

a bit of excitement...

There is a bit of excitement for the locals this afternoon. A swarm of black bees arrives on the lookout for somewhere to colonize. After a flurry of excitement the drama is relatively short-lived. Our local bee keeper, Terry the Bee, meanders into action and calmly coaxes them into a portable hive.   Black bees it seems are more aggressive.  Terry rounds them all up before taking them off to permanent digs elsewhere, "Can't be having 'em round ere" Terry's wife Ange muses. Meekly, I nod in agreement. Having been stung by Terry's supposedly less aggressive bees, I am not about to argue for the interlopers to stay.  As I watch Terry and his winged charges drive away, it occurs to me how hectic some Sundays can be.

tiresome Americans

Listening to Radio 4 I roll my eyes as some tiresome American is interviewed at 'ground zero' - that equally tiresome and technically incorrect euphemism for the site on which the Twin Towers once stood. He whines on in an irritating New York accent about Moslems who want to build a mosque at the location describing this apparently outrageous plan as 'emotional terrorism', having first prefaced his inflammatory remarks with the disclaiming "I'm all for religions..." I wait patiently for the interviewer to point out that a lot of US moslems died in the attack but she allows his bigoted rant to pass without challenge.

I seem to recall that Americans were rather less sympathetic to the plight of Londoners who braved Irish terrorist bombs during the seventies and eighties: indeed, they were quite happy to fund that 'terror'; but then that is my experience of Americans, it's never a problem until something happens in their own back-yard and when it does they pontificate and eulogize in the most sanctimonious way to the point where you feel like saying "just fucking deal with it". Thankfully, we were spared any mention of 'closure' otherwise I think the radio would have gone out of the window closely followed by a few choice expletives. Happy days.

Mrs B

Mrs B died in her garden the other day. She was eighty something. Her husband of nearly sixty years died a few weeks earlier and she seemed to have given up. It wasn't a surprise to learn she'd passed. Guess it was the best way for her to go - pottering in the garden, the place she loved, on a beautifully sunny September afternoon. It has a poetic quality. Take care Mrs B.

brisk polling

They say that the polling stations are doing 'brisk' business. Sharon and I visit in the early evening. Aside from us, there are two electoral officials and a single sheep wandering about outside. I'm guessing that this is a brisk as it gets here in deepest Cornwall.

Woody smells

Spent some time in the garden recently cutting trees and trimming shrubs. Most of what gets cut is burnt on the open fire in the front room. One shrub I'd not pruned previously provided some nicely sized firewood. I've burnt branches from small trees and shrubs before and some of them have a very fragrant aroma. This one was certainly pungent; unfortunately, it smelt of dog shit.