There was a native pigeon in the neighbour’s large kowhai tree. Nearby is a puriri tree which has been attracting tui. I was pleased to see the pigeon. Such a lumbering flight.
Anne’s attempts at gardening are being frustrated by a jinx I’ve christened ‘Agent Yellow’. She has an illogical dislike of the colour yellow. She just doesn’t respond to it positively. Imagine her frustration when a mixed pack of pansies turned out to have five yellow and one white. Then two packs of wallflower seedlings gave eight yellow, three maroon and one orange. So much for nature’s randomness and the vagaries of the nurseryman. And the yellow rose still blooms whilst the other colours have packed away for the winter.
My disease reminds me a little of the underwater oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. There is some obvious signs on the surface, floating oil, bedraggled seabirds, booms, tar on beaches and in the rushes, fishing fleets in port. But below the surface there are all sorts of developments that science is having trouble measuring, about which the oil people have few clues and the long term consequences loom disastrous.
Such is my body. Friends call and say I look and sound well. Of course, I’m putting my best foot forward. But underneath the dry rot spreads. The walker both enables greater mobility – got to the end of the lane twice this week despite the inclement weather – but also increases dependence. Another loose tooth, the third this year, does not auger well in the dental department. I wear mittens most of the time as my feet and hands feel the cold. Roll round the shortest day. The effort to do simple things expands continually. The comparison with the Gulf is mere metaphor. But the frustration and helplessness is similar. .
Bologna Children's Book Fair
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