- There was another gorgeous butterfly in the garden earlier, but it scarpered before I could get the camera. “Not ready for my close-up, Mr de Mille”, I heard it mutter as it fluttered away. Mostly black, with bright red flashes on its wingtips. Any clues?
- Back in May, I turned the central heating thermostat down to 180C: it’s just clicked on (5.35 pm)! Outside, it’s 150, and hasn’t been much more all day. How am I supposed to get those tomatoes ripened??
- The letter ‘i’ on my keyboard is making an ominous clunky noise. Could this be due to the residual presence of dried red wine?
- Rummaging through a drawer for an old butter knife, as one does, I came across the fork from a cutlery set I was given at my christening, back in 1942. (The rest – knife, spoon? – is lost; as is the butter knife.) It’s solid silver, little lion on the back to prove it, and is engraved with my initials. I found this quite moving for some reason. I also discovered that, if you tap it on a hard surface, it plays a very interesting chord.
- Does anybody speak cat? I can communicate with most dogs, but cats are mysterious. I was sitting out under my bus shelter when a tabby who frequents the garden crept out of the shrubbery. In the past, any friendly approach by me would be rebuffed with a startled stare and a dash back into the bushes – but this time it crept up, miaowing threateningly, came close enough to be briefly stroked, rolled over on its back and allowed its tummy to be tickled. Then it jumped up and ran away like a scaredy-cat. It might just be hungry, of course, but it’s not going to get fed around here. Or it needs counselling. Mysterious.