I am a simple little squit of a hominid.
Small things catch my attention and amuse me.
Squirrels, badgers, sunrises, sunsets and cloud formations.
Some days – some weeks – you don’t get any of those on Ing-er-lund’s canals. I didn’t get any squirrels or badgers today… but I did get clouds.
You can lead a “modern” hominid to water, but you can’t often make them stop and just look up at the sky. Tis a shame, because they don’t half miss some spectacles. I couldn’t even see the sky without my spectacles.
England’s a bit on the small side as countries go. Fifty thousand three hundred and one square miles, or thereabouts. A population hilariously (tragically) officially quoted as fifty-five millions, but which is actually probably nearer to seventy millions in the real world. What isn’t London is motorway and what isn’t motorway is airport runway and what isn’t airport runway is NCP car-park and what isn’t NCP car-park will very, very soon be utterly blotted out by ticky-tacky housing and new prisons run by private corporations.
You get a lot of aeroplane condensation-trails in the sky (ruinously so, at times).
One sometimes wonders if perhaps the Battle of
Britain England isn’t still in progress, but with Easyjet and Ryanair and Aeroflot and Howthehelldoesitstayupthere Airways instead of twenty-year-old chaps in Hurricanes and Spitfires.
Stewardesses wandering up and down the aisle, re-filling champagne flutes and asking passengers to please fasten their seat belts and kiss their rear-ends goodbye because the Captain advises that there is some heavy ack-ack ahead and we might all be getting to that Big Destination In The Sky more quickly than we had thought.
The Department of Meteorological Ornamentation produced a weird-looking arrangment yesterday, with this “rip” in the layers of clouds, through which other clouds were either sneaking in or were escaping. Perhaps a little of the fabric of space-time had given way? Who knows.
It is quite usual hereabouts, as in “on this little island”, to be treated to a sky full of all manner of and every variety of clouds, all at once.
This isn’t by design or management, it’s simply because we no longer have a clue what we’re doing or how to do it.
Doubtless the Weather Control Centre (outsourced to Bombay or Poonah or somewhere) has a large instruction sheet Sellotaped up on the wall.
- Some sort of sunrise
- Some sort of sunset
Of course, if you look up at the sky to the exclusion of all else there is always the danger that you’ll step on a squirrel or a badger.
There was a grebe in the canal this morning. No idea where it is now, those things only surface once every fifty miles or so. Moorhens and grebes, they’re my favourite feathered water-nonsenses.
I wonder if moorhens bob about and grebes surface and expostulate to one another ‘ooh, there’s a Hutson, one of my favourite land-mammales (sic)’?
Perhaps they just bob about and surface to look at the sky?
Looks as though we’re in for another mixed day today, Cyril.
Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme meteorological silliness.
Ian H., and Cardinal W.