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Saturday. A difficult day for making any progress with my blog. Mountains of crocks from Friday evening to be dealt with first!
Where is my friend, Mrs Hinch, when she’s needed? And why doesn’t that Zoflora stuff do the disinfecting without the necessity of any manual labour?
Forget the crocks. Time to get out!
Time to hit Chilton! First stop, clutches of green eggs, all snuggled up in their parents’ love nests, accompanied by black-headed pins sunbathing on pretty-pink cushions.
Poppies. Cow parsley. Brambles. Prickles. Why did I opt for bare legs today? Leggings, get yourselves here – now!
Now, I’m pretty sure, that were Hubby here, he would make the definitive statement that this is nothing more than hogweed. But, this is what I see. A girl-band of fairies, one on each platform, all singing their hearts out and striving to catch the attention of the King of the Little People – Louis Walsh!
Sloes. Attractive, but not as attractive as they look when fermenting in a bottle of gin! No idea what the white flowers are, but they bring back memories of other children’s paper snowflakes sellotaped to a primary classroom window. Was it just me, or did everyone else spend hours cutting intricate shapes out of their folded and quartered paper square, only to open them up to find – not a snowflake – but four separate pieces of holey paper!
Red and yellow and pink and blue; orange and purple and green. I can sing a rainbow, sing a …. Okay, so you can’t see any orange but, come on, all of the other colours are featured! And my hair’s orange – that counts!
And, whilst we’re on the subject of hair, who should I see gazing into my Nokia’a lens, but Boris Johnson (top left, below) and, judging by the state of his bulbous-red nose, I reckon he’s just been for a filler at the The Five Bells, down in Cornard. Just take a look at him – thinking he’s the bees’ knees (2), with all those purple-hatted royal ladies competing to get a kiss from him! Yuck! Boris, get off your pedestal – you’re not PM yet (and you never will be if anyone’s got any sense!)!
Yes, all of the wild flowers of Chilton are stunning, just like the photographer, but I resist the temptation to take a selfie, and I drift downhill from Chilton, take a run for it across the busy bypass, and head along a somewhat-quieter byway that gives me a fine view of the properties that grace Cornard Road. Nothing prepares me for the splendour of the site that greets me
The ruins of a Roman town, not in Shropshire’s Wroxeter, but in Suffolk? When I left Shropshire, at the age of four, did I hoist the landscape up onto my tiny shoulders and bring it along with me? Did I carry it on my family’s voyage all around the coast of the UK, before depositing it in Sudbury?
You doubt me?
Spot the difference!
Adrenaline rushes through me, as I see the opportunity for a new challenge. Why the heck did that Septimus Severus geezer ban women from fighting as gladiators? Reckon I’d have given Spartacus a run for his money (did slaves have any money?)! Time to get back to my cave and don my fighting gear.
Shame this outfit is lacking in the essentials, because I’m feeling rather suave in it!
But, if can persuade Amazon to do a mix ‘n’ match deal, with the dagger and shield from the brunette wench, I’ll be right in the action!
I jog back up the cliff face, eager to rummage through the fancy kit in my cave home’s dressing room, and all revved up for challenging my next invader to a duel, when I come to a rather abrupt stop. A flourescent-yellow lightshade is blinding me with its glare, and I feel like I’m in one of those nightmares – you know, the ones when your legs are running, but you’re not getting anywhere. There’s nothing I can do. And, within seconds, thanks to the fortune I saved by not going for the anti-glare tint on my sunglasses, I find myself completely immobilised.
Where are the men when they’re needed. Come on, Hubby! Come and rescue your maiden in distress. I’ve been petrified by a basilisk! This is surely something to do with that sexist b*****d, Septimus Severus!
Come on, Hubby (3), sort it! Help me out of this mess!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019
(1) My level-headed Hubby corrects my misconceptions. Apparently, this is actually a bramble bush!
(2) On the issue of whether the apostrophe should be before or after the ‘s’ in bees, depending on how many knees we are talking about, I have opted for bees in the plural. As Kirk Elder suggests, then: ‘the bee is singular, unless it is in a swarm, in which case it is quite dangerous.’
(3) If Hubby turns out to useless in an emergency, there’s nothing to stop me calling for Love Island‘s Curtis. After all, if Maura thinks he’s a real ‘manly’ sort of a man – then he must be!