Yesterday’s airborne avian shadow was a jackdaw perched on a TV aerial some distance away.
As the evening sun lowered in the West, Flo continued her bird photography.
The collared dove took its turn at the feeding tray,
until its mate dislodged it.
Settling in the weeping birch it pondered a pigeon,
practiced its trapeze act,
and eventually took to the air.
A crow was poised for launching from the chimney pots,
and a male chaffinch enjoyed the last of the sunshine.
This morning a hobbled around the garden and the back drive before Jackie drove me to the GP surgery to order a repeat prescription, which, later, we collected.
I emptied the purple plastic bucket used for collecting weeds.
Along the back drive a bee took a break on an ivy leaf.
The staff of the children’s home have cleared some of their side of the North Breeze jungle, so the magnolia is more visible,
and the camellia has now bloomed above that garden’s shed.
It will not escape my readers’ attention that our granddaughter’s bird photographs are considerably better than mine. In a vain attempt to match up, I attempted to take some this afternoon. The best I could manage was this rather scathing greenfinch:
Just after lunch, Becky accompanied Jackie to Nuffield Hospital at Chandler’s Ford, where she is to have her knee surgery. She was seen exactly on time by a very courteous consultant who described exactly what he was to do. This private hospital is very well appointed, and offers good quality, free, coffee while you wait. It is contracted to the NHS. Interestingly the free newspapers provided were The Daily Mail, The Daily Telegraph, and The Times. Becky sought in vain for The Mirror, The Sun, and The Guardian.
Soon after their return, Flo dashed into the sitting room seeking the camera. ‘Eric’, she cried, as she eagerly grasped the instrument.
Now, my regular followers will be aware that I have spent weeks aiming my lens through the kitchen window unsuccessfully trying to photograph our visiting pheasant both in focus and clear of the undergrowth. Whenever I have emerged into the garden, off Eric has lumbered, squawking.
What does Flo do?
She creeps outside, and tracks her prey all round the garden. Not only does he not disappear, but he looks her in the eye. She returns after what seems an age, her facial expression being a mix of smugness and mischief.
Seemingly reluctant to show me what she has achieved, she disappears into the kitchen and, after an expectant interval, hands me my camera.
Our granddaughter had downloaded them from the internet into her iPad, then photographed her screen.
I think you’d agree, it was no contest.
This evening more of yesterday’s superb dinner, well matured, was served by our mistress chef who, along with Becky, drank Mateus rose. Ian and I imbibed San Miguel, while Flo savoured J2O.