It’s the last day of January. A high pitched, instantly recognisable call comes from down in the vale amongst the trees. Possibly it’s one of those new Samsung Galaxy phones, though I doubt it. It can’t be a cuckoo, can it? Surely it’s too early by about four months. It’s a sound that brings back memories of long early summers of childhood, of greenery and big skies. I consult one of my many gardening books and it looks like it might be a wood pigeon pretending to be a cuckoo.
Why would a wood pigeon do that?
A football has come back from next door. It’s one my eldest son lost two or three years ago and looks sad and worn, as if a family of foxes have been regularly sharpening their teeth on it. My son has pretty much gone off football since the ball disappeared – though to be fair he lost about six balls altogether, whacking them high over the fence while trying to do extravagant keepie uppies. One day those balls will probably all return. But it will be too late for my son, who now is too busy playing Shoot Smash Gore Scream 3.0 on a regular basis to worry about football.
Shitty wet day. Took some veg peelings to the compost bin. Carrots and potatoes. Caught one of the cats doing a shit near the pear tree. It’s not our cat. None of the cats are ours, but they all seem to like our garden because it is messily chaotic. I used to feel that the garden was a physical manifestation of my state of mind. But now I think that’s not the case. Our next door neighbour, who had beautiful plants in the front yard, committed suicide a few weeks ago. He’d suffered from depression for a long time and went downhill very fast in the last few weeks. Yet he always tended his garden. This is theorising on the hoof. I haven’t really thought it through.
It’s a sort of Bobby Charlton lawn. The grass is too long, except in the many patches where there is no grass at all. I have put grass seed down but something is eating it. The birds, maybe, or the worms. Or perhaps it is the cats.