First day of November

I'm going to try to post every day in November, how about that! ('try to', I'm told, is to set oneself up to fail).

I began this post with a rather Eeyore-ish, sic-transit, something-rotten-in-the-state-of-Blogland, I've-got-nothing-to-say-any-more, quasi-lament, but I wiped it and wrote (then corrected) the above line instead.

When I first started here, nine years ago now, I used to get up at six in the morning, come and sit in front of the computer and just write. Sometimes I took a bit longer over preparing special posts and editing photos and so on, but essentially it was a matter of regular practice. Things ebb and flow, come and go, of course, but perhaps there's still a value in setting a time and making a commitment; that I'll find something to say and to share by doing so, and if the Blogmuse has grown flabby, menopausal and sluggardly, eschewing flights of poetry and other raptures in favour of a comfy chair, knitting and endless repeats of Midsomer Murders, well it won't do any harm to make her take a bit more regular exercise, and maybe take the camera with her. Also, no excuses about the hassle of downloading and editing photos on the big computer, I shall just stick the SD card into this one and lift the odd picture straight from it, with only the minimal editing (cropping and a bit of instant polish) this machine enables. No 6 am starts though, but maybe 6 pm instead.

So, here we are at Toussaint, and you would think it summer, even now, at half past six in the evening, it feels more like June at midnight. A sudden recollection came to me this morning that I had let another birthday creep up without a card dispatched; I have been very hit-or-miss with them this year, but this is one I usually do manage. My apologetic e-mail brought a swift and cheerful reply, which spoke of moorland walks, brunches of scrambled eggs, Guy Fawkes Night fireworks at the local cricket club and pub meals, all of which induced a certain nostalgie de pays, in a nice way. I cleared my desk and undertook to finish a gift. A deckchair - already put away in the garage for the winter but easily retrieved - and knitting in the sun. What a bummer.

Even the a***hole (that's how we spell it in British English, with and 'ar') chasseurs were remarkably quiet most of the day, with just a few silly pooty noised on their little horns and a few bangs and barking dogs in the distance, presumably they had moslty been dragged off to the cemeteries to deposit chrysanthemums.

I was interrupted only by a late peacock butterfly, which landed and rested in the sun on the back of my hand, cleaned its front legs on its long curled tongue, and opened and closed its frayed wings while the breeze ruffled the soft, surprisingly long, brown fur on the back of its body, for at least five minutes. I decided the underside of its wings was really almost as beautiful as the colourful part, and would probably be my preferred choice for curtains, and offered it a lick of the butterscotch sweet Tom had just brought out to me (uxorious, see).  However, it declined, and only went on its way when I late blowfly alighted further up my arm and I made a reflex swat towards it.

I didn't have the camera then, and probably couldn't have photographed it if I had, but brought it out later and pointed it around a bit. But that will do for today.