bonk I always say.
Sitting like Ma Larkin, cheek by jowl with
Pa, full to pussy's bow with good strong Kentish cider.
We contemplate our wild meadow garden.
Cynics might say our gardening slothfulness knows no bounds.
With the sun's rays peeping through the canopy of
the magnolia tree, smugly,
we look to those who buy cheap sunshades from Robert Dyas,
Argos and the like.
No worries that the sub-soil from the big pond dig
sits on the lawn, looking for all the world like
Kent's answer to Tut's final resting place.
We are happy.
Nature is doing what nature does best...
not to put too fine a point on it...
Every year, under the eves of our 300 year old
weatherboard cottage, sparrows nest.
They make much of building a des. res. with lichen-clad roof of
Kentish peg-tiles. After the Grand Designs is complete, they
celebrate by sitting on the end of the cast-iron gutter
and not to put too fine a point on it...
until even Ma Larkin thinks...
'They're pushing it!'
There is just one bum note in this
in all the years we have,
like pervy naturalists, watched their antics,
there have never been babies.
She is obviously a slatternly sparrow;
a wag of the worse possible kind.
He's a male, happy to provide a cosy pied-à-terre.
No worries she's faking it!
The blue-tits are about to entice their family out of the
nest-box. They along with the frogs have
It only remains now for Hedge
to find a mate instead of sleeping alone
in the greenhouse, and we will feel that our wild gardening adventure
has proved a success.