This is a picture of me with Gladwys. (I'm the one on the right.)
I'm going to stop writing come-ons from now on because I keep changing my mind about what to write.
Although I have no proper work to do but bicker with builders, my days are full. What with the dog to walk, and the chickens to attend to, and Reb hogging the computer, the best time for me to blog (a horrible verb) is early morning, such as now.
And writing at all has been made more difficult in the last few days by the removal for replacement of the main house roof. No sooner had this been done, than we had three or four days featuring the kind of wind and rain normally only seen on news stories from Cuba or Haiti with names like Hurricane Gladwys. For some reason, the sight of our house resembling one of the more neglected parts of downtown Gaza induced in me an obscure medical condition known to the Hippocratic profession as "gloom."
But the chickens don't give a shit, except in the usual way. I would very much like to name them, but they all still look indentical to me, whatever my last boss John Block might say. "There are no such things as identical twins," he often carped, being a twin himself, and clearly not identical to anyone.
Maybe I'll just call them all Gladwys. This is a good chicken name, although they are Spanish chickens, and might be better suited to names like our neighbours, such as Celestino, Modesto, Anastasio and Secundino, although these are men, of course. Anyway, the hen girls all speak English now, and follow me when I say, "Good morning, ladies, time for brekkie," so British names seem appropriate. So, Gladwys, Gladwys, Gladwys, Gladwys, Gladwys and Gladwys, it will be. Let them sort it out.
And right now the sun is shining again, and a very melodious bird (don't know what sort) who lives locally and whom we know as "Placido," is doing selections from The Merry Widow.
Which reminds me. There was a jazz man in London called Ronnie Scott, who became known, along with his sax-playing, for his comments between numbers. "Embarrasing night last week," he said once. "I was half way through the Merry Widow when my reed collapsed."
Someone in the audience once asked him if he could play "Surrey With The Moon On Top." "No, but I can do How High The Fringe," he snapped back.
And mention of Placido reminds me of Wagner, which also reminds me of Noel Coward, who, after seeing the musical "Camelot," was asked what he thought of it. "A bit like Parsifal, but not nearly as funny." he said.