Unforgiving

She has been scratching in a total frenzy, so today was bath day. Quite little really, isn't she? She went to dry off in my house files, knew exactly what she was doing and they are not better for the experience.

It was the signal to slow down and attend to domestic neglect, so I sat on the swing seat unpicking Mary's waistband, just listening to the creak of the springs, and the clack of sheets against masts that reminds me of a hesitant maestro rapping on the podium. I can tell so much from unpicking, these threads were unbalanced and the stitch so large it was relatively easy, whereas a properly made English shirt is next to impossible to deconstruct. The Indonesian seamstresses are poorly paid, so larger stitches are faster and they don't stop to correct the tension. In London I used to look at brick buildings and marvel that each one was put there by hand. The bricklayers were poorly paid, but the buildings are still there.

Two nights ago we were visited by at least on hundred swallow swirling around and around above us, and last night a parliament of crows were disciplining one of their member while the hummingbirds disregarded them entirely. This morning was enlivened by one cantankerous duck. And one pissed-off little cat.