Nobody really wants to read about my holiday and how amazing it was, do they? Tough. After all the seriousness of last week’s post I’m drifting into levity and inconsequential fluff again. Don’t worry; I’ll keep it brief. Levity and brevity should probably be my blogging watchwords. It would make a change.
Mainly, I’m writing about this is to gloat. Well, OK, it’s to gloat and because I don’t have any better ideas this week. I thought it was exceedingly important that everyone knows that for the last week I’ve been loafing about here:
Yeah, that’s right, it’s a treehouse. Not just that. It’s a treehouse with a hot tub. Which is all fine and dandy until a hornet takes it upon himself to do periodical flybys, sending yours truly damply scurrying back inside with the screaming heebie jeebies. I’m not sure I can accurately estimate its size, but I would say it was at least as big as your average domesticated cat. With wings.
One can’t spend all of one’s time jumping in and out of hot tubs avoiding oversized Vespidae though. It’s bad for one’s skin and one’s deportment, if nothing else. No matter, there were plenty of scenic villages to meander through, Bredon Hill to climb and Ashton Wood to explore.
It was in the latter that I discovered the largest badger sett I’ve ever seen. It put the ironworks on top of Bredon Hill to shame. Now, a word on my wife here (yes, I really am married): It takes a special kind of woman to nod tolerantly and say ‘oh, that’s nice’ when their lunatic husband yells from the undergrowth ‘Look at the size of this badger latrine!’
Considering her main interactions with nature through the week involved being menaced by an itinerant hornet and recoiling in horror at the mention of a tick on my leg (I lassoed it with a piece of cotton), I have to applaud her stoicism. Although she steadfastly refused to accompany me on a late night test of my shiny new bat detector (Soprano Pips, possible Natterer’s). Maybe next week I’ll write about the trials and tribulations of being bound by law to an ecologist.
So there you go, that was my holiday, interesting, wasn’t it? For now I have returned to the grim urban landscape of Stockwell, with its huge bus station that suspiciously thrums at ungodly hours. They’re building something that goes against man and nature in there, mark my words. Oh to live in a place where Red Kites soar whenever I turn my eyes skyward.