When written, of 2012, history will record English rain. Droughts elsewhere of course, all things being equal. Respite last week arrived in the form of three days of sun; baking roasting sun, ameliorated mildly on Thursday by a breeze.
I saw the local highland beast collective standing knee deep in a forest sink, their belly hair sucking up moisture like the skin of a thorny devil. Half shaded, but with blessed cool silted hooves, they were the usual picture of content.
Butterflies bloomed briefly, in greater numbers than hithertoo and I saw two slowworms patrolling without having to seek them out. Last week there was one on the front path, soaking up the radiance from the crazy storage heater paving; a near rival in size for the one I accidently took to the domestic waste site in the spring.
Olympian tales of sailing and the slow passage of cloudy goliaths makes me regret my desk-bound existence, but I am waiting, until badminton time.
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