And so we bid fare-thee-well to the Cruellest Month, and good-hail-sirrah to the Merry Month. The evenings are already lengthening in a very agreeable way, and everyone around Walpole Park is straining for the first call of the cuckoo (as if they’d even be heard above the chatter of the parakeets). The mayflies are already popping up here and there, though for such a short-lived species, it really doesn’t pay to be too early. And yes, pedants, I am fully aware that their larvas can live for a year or two underwater, and I’m further aware that they are usually called nymphs, not larvas, and that the plural of larva is larvae, but I trump you thrice with a) they’re actually naiads, not nymphs, b) but I’m going to call them all larvas anyway, and there’s nothing you can do about it, c) yes, larvas with an ‘s’, and d) clearly by ‘mayfly’ I am referring exclusively to the adult stage, that being the stage that, you know, flies…
Phew, glad to get that off my chest ! I guess I’ve been cooped up too much avoiding the April showers. Weedsworth has often been joining me, which is a mixed blessing. I take her point that there is not that much gardening that can be undertaking during a downpour, but I wish she had a greenhouse or potting shed or Georgian orangery she could retire to. She can be rather exhausting at times, full of factoids and opinions and occasional evangelising for the Tories (particularly with that other stalwart of May upon us – the election season). I mostly don’t take the bait, but many’s the time I have taken the inbreath upon which to launch my invective, merely to dowse just in time by remembering every pub bore I have ever overheard. Though to be honest, she is not exactly your typical blue-rinse, nor a libertarian free-marketeer. “Immigrants ?”, she’ll posit, “Terrible people. Except the ones who aren’t. Which is most of them, actually. Much like the rest of us, really.” You see what I mean ? “Taxes ? Bleeding us dry, frittered away on woke nonsense. And our schools, of course, and the NHS. And even the grants to the lefties just get re-taxed and collected back in again, so no harm done.” Honestly, I just sip my Earl Gray and let her get on with it.
Anyway, while she’s wrangling with the vast and many-layered knee-jerks of the Brexit debate, I’ll tell you about this week’s Workshop. A small but dedicated group met within the bounds of the Library to mull the muse and voice the verse. We began with a well-travelled Caroline Am Bergris, fresh off the liner and re-finding her land-legs. She has been communing with the caterpillars (presumably not onboard ?), pondering if they even know how airbourn they will become…? John Hurley meanwhile has setting the alarm so he can keep an eye on the dawn to make sure it happens on-time. And while there he might as well take note of what he sees, and at least he gets to walk home in the light. Roger Beckett was next, not-quite understanding physics but thoroughly understand what he thinks about that. I agree, physics is so much easier in the world of Star Trek, where things don’t have to really work since they are always shown as working every time. Finally, Martin Choules has been throwing an arm over our collective left shoulder to share a few home truths about of assembled arrogance and divisiveness, with far more sorrow than sniding. I really must give Wordsworth his number, I’m sure he’d just love to compare notes…
Anyway, just a short note this week, seeing as I’ve spent most of it trying to keep the interns busy. We’ve re-indexed the slim volumes on the miles of shelves by font, semi-colon usage, and even front cover RGB values, and if this rain doesn’t let up soon, I’ll have to break out the never-ending Monopoly board. Ah, wait a moment…“…drastic action to settle domestic differences, though not without legitimate questions on some aspects lack-of-accountability…” I do believe Weedsworth has nearly won the Brexit debate with herself. I’ll sign off here and clear up the tea things as she hurtles to an honourable draw.
The Pitshanger Poets 