crocked

i am temporarily crocked as my left hand is out of operation, so no postings for a few days. i dont know how you guys manage to write with your right hand exclamation mark.

Meadowsweet

Meadowsweet, a wild flower as lovely as its name. I have a clump of it in my garden every summer, and I treasure it.
Be that as it may, you know that I was recently jilted. That is to say, my ducklings deserted me. I guess Mother Duck thought they could make a better living in a drain.
So be it, I thought.
Then, just as I was wondering what I could do with my life and with all the food pellets I had bought, behold, two cute baby rabbits turned up on the back lawn. I was no longer alone! Every morning, there they were, lolloping back and forth over the sward, nibbling at this and that - this and that being mostly my clump of meadowsweet. It's all gone, and so have they. No, I didn't shoot or trap them, but I think the sight of three Common Buzzards circling over the garden might have decided them to try pastures new.
Anyway, If you have meadowsweet in your garden, get the netting out right away: the killer bunnies are coming.

The 'Ole in the Ark, etc

Oh the shame of it! I now discover, thanks to HGJones, that Marriott Edgar is the poet laureate of the north. And me with a Lancastrian mother too.
Thanks, HG.
Click here for all the poetry of Marriott Edgar.

Weasel again

My thanks to Peter W for sending me a copy of the photograph of the headless baby weasel, temporarily wrested from the jaws, so to speak, of a hungry baby Kestrel.
I think the wee beastie is quite endearing in a gruesome kind of way.

Albert and the Lion

Get someone to recite this to you in a broad Lancashire accent:






There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much of the Ocean:
The waves, they were fiddlin' and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,
Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,
They paid and went into the Zoo,
Where they'd Lions and Tigers and Camels,
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;
His nose were all covered with scars -
He lay in a somnolent posture,
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,
How they was ferocious and wild -
To see Wallace lying so peaceful,
Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the Lion didn't like it,
For giving a kind of a roll,
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im,
And swallowed the little lad 'ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,
And didn't know what to do next,
Said 'Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert',
And Mother said 'Well, I am vexed!'

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom -
Quite rightly, when all's said and done -
Complained to the Animal Keeper,
That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;
He said 'What a nasty mishap.
Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten?'
Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!'

The manager had to be sent for.
He came and he said 'What's to do?'
Pa said 'Yon Lion's 'et Albert,
'And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too.'

Then Mother said, 'Right's right, young feller;
I think it's a shame and a sin,
For a lion to go and eat Albert,
And after we've paid to come in.'

The manager wanted no trouble,
He took out his purse right away,
Saying 'How much to settle the matter?'
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?'

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone.
She said 'No! someone's got to be summonsed' -
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P'lice Station,
In front of the Magistrate chap;
They told 'im what happened to Albert,
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,
'And thank you, sir, kindly,' said she.
'What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!'

The author is someone that nobody has ever heard of. This is his moment of glory: his name is Marriott Edgar.

Mustelids

Warning: some of what follows might be distressing to vegetarians. Fortunately, it does not contain flashing lights, so epileptics can relax, unless, of course, they are epileptic vegetarians.

A feisty family, the mustelids. The two species most frequent in this country are the weasel and the stoat. I am sure you are all familiar with the advice on how to tell them apart: "the weasel is w'easily recognised; the stoat 'stotally different." Yup.
Anyway, the reason for this note is that yesterday, my colleague Peter found an unusual, if not unique, prey item in a Kestrel box - to wit, a baby weasel. It was headless and one of the Kestrel chicks was already chomping happily on the rest of it.
Here, at no extra charge, is a picture of a weasel. Authorship acknowledged here.

Mrs T on the case

Mrs Trellis is a close observer of the contemporary international scene:
Dear Mrs Erdogan, she writes, I don't know what all the fuss is about you wearing a headscarf. We all do it, don't we dear, to hide the curlers. If men wanted curly hair, they'd go round with headscarves too. Fortunately Mr Trellis, my late husband, lost his hair in a poker game, so all he ever needed was an occasional polish. By the way, forgive my indiscretion, but is your hubby as miserable as he looks?
Your solidly
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd.

Mrs T and HM

Mrs Trellis comments on the news.
Dear Queen, she writes, forgive me if I get the eticket wrong, but I have never addressed a royalty before.
I loved your speech to the Untied Nations, specially the bit where you told all those foreigners how many nations you are in charge of. I bet you'll get a rush of applications now to become Queen of lots of their countries too, though I would advise you against any country ending in -stan. Stans are full of mosques, and problably mosquitoes too.
PS If your infinite majesty is ever in Llanfairpg, please feel free to make use of my faculties - we've just had a new loo installed. It would make a grand throne.
Your submersively
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, retd.

Monday evening

I told you I'd be back! A memorable day, and the wonderful company of two of my best friends, George and Tricia.
One day, when I am all growed up, I will tell you a story, but for the moment, I just want to kick back and have another cup of tea (with milk, of course: we are not Americans).

Monday morning

It is the morning of Monday 5 July, a bit muggy but otherwise a pleasant day. The ducks have not returned, the field below my garden is full of ponies and the wild birds are eating me out of house and home. As are a couple of baby rabbits, not that I begrudge them one mouthful of my delicate shrubs.
It is my great ambition in life to make another blog entry in a few hours' time. If I don't, please don't fret: I will be back.