Snake!

Not a snake as in Badger, Badger... Snake! but a real, veritable, scaley (and smished-ed) snake.

This is the first snake I have seen in the 3 years I have been in Britain. It was slightly alarming as if I had travelled through some space-time continuum, the delirium of cycling up the hill ending not in quaint English countryside as at the bottom but in a Stephen King version of sunny Colorado (in this story, the population of zooming Smarty&Fit male cyclists who make pseudo-encouraging comments to wheezing cyclists has been decimated by either a plague of locusts or the local zombies).

There are apparently three types of snake in Britain (I thought there was only one). The Grass Snake, the Smooth Snake and the Adder. The only poisonous one is the Adder. In my skilled estimation, this flattened specimen is/was probably a Grass Snake (although it looked like a Rat Snake or Cottonmouth to me at first), but unlike any little old grass snake I ever did see before.

Rumour has it as well that there are some sort of wierd reptile that looks like a snake but is actually a lizard -- a slow worm. Who knew!? Anguis fragilis is a legless lizard -- apparently the top reason for population reduction in suburban areas is Felis catus. However, our Catus blackus seems to prefer furred, pointy-nosed prey. Or feathered...




*NOTE: This entry is slightly deceptive, as the snake is nearly two-week-old-news by now. Death Of Snake didn't make the EDP (as far as I know) but you never know when they might need a news story... (see Woman Trampled By Cow). Reason for delay in reporting (this time) is a recent spending of 10-12 hours on the computer each day in preparation for a manic work trip and a complete lack of desire to look at, let alone type on, any sort of keyboard object.

Added to this is the near constant pain in elbow, shoulder and back from mouse over-usage -- age is catching up, you see. Am now on NHS physical therapy list -- let's hope it is slightly more 21st century (or even 20th, for that matter) than the NHS dental service.

Fun on a Friday Night

(or evening... post-work whatever.)

Indeed.

It is 6.03 pm. We have the Appletons arriving at 7.00pm (or earlier, as they are quite perfectly punctual).

Since Himself had to work until 6 this evening, I cycled today with the optimistic goal or making it home by 5.30, vaccuuming madly, taking shower, fussing with annoyingly uncooperative hair and eyebrows, lighting candles, plumping pillows, arranging post-dinner drinks, feeding repetitive Kitty -- generally being obsessive compulsive and having high blood pressure for a whole hour and a half (woo hoo!).

However, about 3/4 of the way up that complete b----- of a hill before you make it to the cattery, I realised that, like last evening, I probably didn't have any house keys. [This was after the annoyingly healthy fit man zoomed past me at Mach 3 and in Gear 16, no doubt -- chipperly offering the encouragement, 'You're almost to the top!' as a type of cyclist greeting. If I hadn't been wheezing asthmatically in Gear 1, I would have attempted some smart retort. But as it was...]

My premonition was proven true as I dug fruitlessly through all pockets of panniers and various bag-like accoutrements.

Fortunately, the side door was open to the alley, so's the bike (and Herself) didn't have to sit by the front door looking homeless and a complete fool [It is preferable to do that online, instead].

Have swept the back yard pavements (as a half-hearted attempt at obsessive complusion, but it just really wasn't enough to make me frantic. I ought to be hyperventilating by now... alas.), rearranged tomato plants (again), talked to neighbors, who weren't sure if it was Angus or Arthur who wandered through the pub today (snicker).

So, am sat sweating in the back garden, with a black kitty on the table, a dead blue-tit (frown) in the grass, and some chips and guacamole (made fresh this a.m. and tookened to share with work!). At least it is not raining :)

*******
.... It is 6.17pm and the back door has just been opened by Himself (who is now home)!

Let the Obsessive Compulsive behaviour begin.

Scrumping

Technically, 'scrumping' is stealing, particularly apples from an orchard. However, it can be used casually to refer to general hunter-gatherer activity, and it is this sense in which we indulged in scrumping today (at the instigation of moi). It comes, no doubt, from being a Keachi child, and perhaps watching and reading a bit too much Little House on the Prairie.

I have been itching to pick blackberries for weeks, esp. when I am organised enough to cycle to work and greedily look at all the lovely fruit. However, they are more deceptive here than in Loosyanna -- probably because of the lack of traumatic heat -- and are still quite tart until they are plumper than plump.

Along the alley that leads to the High Common, there are quite a few plums; there are crabapples on several massive trees along the Common; we even picked THREE raspberries in the WILD (very exotic for children from the humid South) when the Traceys and the Irish aunties came for a visit. Then, of course, I am keeping an eagle eye on the elderberries, so I can remember where they are in November. Simply so much scrumping to be done!

Naturally, it is most definitely not thievery if one picks tomatoes that have grown in one's garden; but it doesn't really count as scrumping since it is kind of 'planned' vegetable produce, I think. Consuming 'planned' produce can very loosely be considered scrumping if one happens to be visiting someone else's garden and that kind soul lets you nibble on several different little appetizers (such as rocket leaves, and tarragon, and raspberries).

We have two ripe tomatoes (finally)! The garden has gone quite nicely this summer, despite being started rawther a bit late. There is still a veritable plethora of green tomatoes, and we have had beans with dinner about 5 times now. I have had weeks of lettuces for my lunch salads, and they are still going strong!

*******
Another activity in which to indulge when one is out and about scrumping, or scoping for future scrumping opportunities, is to feed the ducks on the Common pond...

This is always amusing and guaranteed to cheer, even those in the glummest of moods. The rustling of a bread bag (or maybe it is the sound of the cycle gears clicking) leads super instantly to a zipping, flapping, quacking migration across the pond (as seen to L). Because my camera is so blessedly smart, it made me miss capturing the frantic ones who felt the need to fly the extra 10 feet. *sigh*

However, today's feeding of the ducks was more amusing than average when an additional odd clucking sound began and 4 chickens emerged down the muddy bank and decided they were interested in this frenzy of duckish activity as well.

Approximately 2 minutes later, as the bread supply was decimated, two tiny kittens with festive collars emerged from the trees by the bank as well, boldly and blithely meowing at certain people! The chickens chased them onto the road (and one poor kitty had perhaps had its eye damaged by a chicken talon), which leads me to suspect that chickens would be safe here as they would be perhaps able to bluff the locals of the black feline persuasion...? Hmmmmm...

A Big Step

Today, herself took a Big Step towards intercultural assimilation.

Before everyone goes all hysterical, this does not mean she suffers any loss of affection for her storage container or her Coon-Ass Kitty or her wonderful fambly and friendses. (This is not her Kitty, but it is a dead ringer... for some reason E seems to think it is remarkably like certain persons, too. But he is deluded.)

Of course, she does still have her Loosyanna driver's license (which has the incorrect address, because DMV employees are only hired based upon a complete lack of customer service and high levels of illiteracy -- I don't think I am offending anyone I know by this hyper-generalisation, but hey, it has been known to recur with startling frequency). But today, she finally sat in a little booth with a dodgy curtain with Godknowswhatall bacteria on it (and she kept having to touch it to hold it closed since it was windy -- ewww) and a sad simile of an ice cream parlor stool; she ooched and scooched and lowered the ice cream stool until her head fit in the little oval on the screen and took a picture for her provisional driving license.

One is not allowed to smile. One has 3 chances. The monotonously chipper woman's voice bleats instructions with only 4-second pauses, so there is really no time to gather yourself. There are buttons to push (green to take a photo -- at least she counts down for you; and red to say that you want to take another), curtains are blowing, the woman is telling you to move your head backwards -- through the wall, apparently -- it is just all quite a lot to coordinate, esp. if one is carrying any items at all other than an elegantly engraved cigarette case with lipstick accessory, or a bowler hat.

This glorious image cost £4. Bless.
Scary, Southern, psycho-killer character actress available for glaring and eyebrow arching.

Then, hyperventilating all the way (and for about an hour after), she posted application form, photo (NOT attached to form, where handy photo-sized grey area is delineated with instruction:
'Official use only DO NOT attach your photograph here Simply include it loose in the envelope'. There is apparently no need for punctuation on government forms.), and beloved passport to Swansea.

I am sure it will be fine. They claim that all identity documents will be returned within 10 working days. Which I sincerely hope, since my next voyage dans l'aire begins 4 weeks from today.

However, there is a wierd feeling of intense alien-ness. Obviously, n'est pas La France Occupee c. 1940, where one needed identity papers at all times; but without a passport, one would perhaps (in some unfortunate eventuality) have a hard time proving one's identity. You don't really think about this when you are in your home country, because after all, you generally don't have to go anywhere where government issued photo identification (not issued by local illiterate) is necessary in case of emergency. It is perhaps silly, but it is an interesting awareness.

Fingers crossed that the passport follows DVLA optimism of a 10-day return. Otherwise, I might take an ulcer with me on September trip. This whole thing is, of course, my fault for delaying -- just because someone didn't want to sit in that horrid little curtained hut. But it was simpler than dealing with the Walgreen's girl. She don't let you have 3 tries... mmmm, mm, no ma'am.

Spot the Kitteh.

Our game today is Spot the Wrong Kitty!

True skill comes when one is able to determine the Correct Kitty without restorting to mundanely obvious clues such as the tinkling of the pink bell or the yowl for instant-service food upon sight of Human Staff Member. Hints on how to do this include ascertaining a certain guilty/defensive look on one face (indicating full expectation of imminent bouncing from house) as well as distinguishing fur quality and pointiness of nose.

But there is not going to be an ejection of interloper, Arthur, today, as it is tipping it right down (today has been a FABulous windy day of thunder and rain and interspersed with sunshine -- proper weather instead of stiff-upper-lip weather!)

And now for something completely different...

Sometimes, I go wandering off. And yesterday, I was chasing butterflies (during the semi-finals of the racing)... and picking blackberries. And people worried. But it was all fine!

Earlier in the day, I noticed the prettiest butterfly on the Buddleia next to the Porta-loos (I called them 'portolets' and was mocked -- oh, come on, people. USE YOUR FREAKING CONTEXT CLUES! I'm obviously not talking about the nearest Starbucks... However, I must admit that portable toilet facilities have come a looooong way -- these flushed with blue liquid and had water faucets with a floor control, like the train!). Not being the kind of person who normally takes a camera to the toilet with them (although in airports, I am sometimes glad to have one handy to take photos of silly stick figure signs), this stalking opportunity was missed.

However, after the first round of the semis, I turned around from reading a history sign I was reading and Mr. E had disappeared. So I wandered the opposite way (from where our settlement area was) down the path less travelled, except that it was still fairly travelled, most notably by a large number of chocolate labs -- who seem to have absolutely no sense of occasion when persons are trying to caaaaaarefully stalk an insect and photograph it. But that is okay :)

[For the benefit of Judith, will think this looks like a path along which brigands might be lying wait, this is the smaller path right next to the larger path, which was very open and not filled with lurking murderers. Norfolk is the safest county in England!]

Quary would be spotted, camera made ready (because heaven forbid it should retain settings), creeping motions through nettles and grasses would ensue... and butterfly would fly off. Normal walking would proceed for a bit, some berries would be consumed (purely for energy and fibre), and then behaviour repeated, with some more productive interludes when other creatures would sit nicely.

This may or may not be golden rod -- I don't seem to be allergic to it, though. I think this is what they call a 'wasp' here. They ain't seen no real wasps...

This little fellow posed for quite a good while for me. He is rather dignified, and the tips of his antennae look like they have been dipped in gold. He is a Tortoiseshell. There is downy almost fur on his body (maybe it is) and it was a lovely olivey-browny-goldy colour.

A little further down the path (after another failed attempt at the main objective and a nettle sting), this nice Common Brown was willing to be photographed. Although, maybe he is a Gatekeeper, instead...

And a dragonfly, who bravely withstood an onslaught of shrubbery beating by a wagging tail and stayed still for me to capture several lovely shots.

Then, we have some ladybugs (or ladybirds, as they are called here). They always pose so nicely and don't flit away with the slightest hint of breeze. We need some to come live in our garden, but despite rumours that you can purchase a bunch of them and bring them home to set free, I have not yet found where one does this. (S'pose I could Google it, since I am constantly impatient with people who do not Google their questions.)

And finally, this was the only photograph I managed of the Peacock, which was taken during a veritable gale and involved me balancing on my toes with camera reached out as far as my arm could go, with an aim and a click. He is rather stunning, isn't he!? But after all that kerfuffle, I think my favourite is the Tortoiseshell, since he was so well-behaved and I got to see such detail on him.

Swan Lake

There are few things more fabulous than large tattooed blokes wearing tutus and pink tights and Dragon Boat racing.

It was even more entertaining when they were walking around the day-camping site, but I didn't want to get smacked.

Over £25,ooo was raised for the Anthony Nolan Trust at Sunday's Norwich Dragon Boat Race. Our team -- Stan's team, The Pedantic Smart Alecks -- came 19th out of 21 teams.

The Race was at Whitlingham Broad, just outside of Norwich in Trowse. A broad is a lake, usually signifying man-made in some way. Most of the broads in Norfolk are a result of the peat digging in the Middle Ages, but Whitlingham Great Broad is a new creation, being used as a quarry until the end of the 20th century.

Like myself, some readers (if there are any of you left since I am currently such a bad on-the-ground correspondent) may not be acquainted with 'Dragon Boat Racing'. It involves long boats with room for teams of 12 -- 10 rowers, one drummer, one helmsman. The helmsman is (for events like this, with loads of novices) provided by the organising company. The drummer sits on a precarious little chair at the front of the boat and... um, drums. It is meant to keep the rhythm of the rowing, since it is imperative to row in synchronisation in order to reach optimal speed, but a lot of the time the whole thing just went higgledy-piggledy. On other boats, of course -- we were actually doing pretty good after our initial row out to the starting point in the middle of the lake.

The racing begins with each team doing 3 heats, with 3 teams in each heat. The top 2 times of each team are averaged and the top 9 teams compete in the semi-finals, with 3 teams in the final (to R, very tight finish -- the winners were 2/10 of a second faster). The course is 40 meters long... and that is a whole heckuva lot longer than you think and than it looks. Sadly, we were not as buff as the rugby teams and other groupings of powerful human specimens, but it was still a Grand day out!

Swan Lake (pink tutu-ed tattooed persons, above) won in both the Best Dressed Category and overall.

We will be there next year, but it is yet undetermined if E will be dressing in tights.