nature – Page 28 – don't confuse the narrator

wet weather, wings and wishes

BBC Headline: Met Office advice was 'not helpful'

The rain continues unabated so how could I resist clicking a link on the BBC website that said Met Office advice was ‘not helpful’?

On reading the article, though, I find that it refers to ‘not helpful’ to the government. Specifically:

The Met Office has admitted issuing advice to government that was “not helpful” during last year’s remarkable switch in weather patterns.

I am reminded of George Mikes’ comments on the weather in his book How to be an alien; specifically:
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narcissus

This picture was irresistible as it seems clear that each narciso (as they are called in Spanish) is enamoured of its own reflection.

Looking for an apt poetical quotation, I find that Sir Aubrey de Vere described the daffodil as “Love-star of the unbeloved March”.

Well, it’s certainly March, and the weather here is undoubtedly unlovely. (That flower bed is at least two inches deep in water at the moment, and it’s at the top of the garden; I dare not venture down to see if the trees in the orchard are knee deep, but I suspect they must be.)

plagues & pests

A BBC website headline announces “‘Black Death pit’ unearthed”, and is followed up with a story starting:

Excavations for London’s Crossrail project have unearthed bodies believed to date from the time of the Black Death.

When I read the news, my first thought was of Quatermass and the Pit, so I hope they don’t find any bugs like the one in the photo.

The bug – a langosta in Spanish – has been there for weeks, hibernating discreetly on the bead curtain. At one point there were two of them (hibernating discretely, I suppose).

It looks like a grasshopper to me, but langosta translates as locust, so I guess I should just be glad we don’t have a plague of them.

Which bring us full circle to the Black Death and that burial ground.

drop by drop

Well, I’m back in the pueblo and the weather is wet and wild. Yesterday evening there was a brief pause in the downpour, though, and I managed to take a few pictures. (As always, you can click each photo to see a larger version.)

I love the way the raindrops and buds work together, but I need to practise more to get the pictures I really want. A little sunshine might help, too.

closeup of early buds on plum tree with raindrop

on the edge of memory

A few days ago, I read a poem by a friend which reminded me of a short story. Sadly, I can’t remember who wrote it: it might have been Saki; perhaps it was Wilde; there’s a very slight chance it was Lovecraft. (I’m fairly sure it was unlike most of the other stories I know by the same author.)

I’m a long way from my own bookshelves, so after racking my brains unsuccessfully, I have had to resort to trying to find the story via the web.

I think the scene was a domestic drawing-room as the afternoon slips towards dusk.

I half remember beautiful scenery, or it might have been the view of a garden through French windows; it could even have been potted plants, I suppose, though I think they would have been perfumed, not simply aspidistras.

There was music; probably celestial, though it might have been a piano. There was a dreamer and a dream, perhaps of classical gods; a promise of immortality, or of life in a different dimension…
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