Easter weekend. Mid April. Scotland. Four days of blue sky and 20°C. Unusual.
I emerged into the garden to inspect the confused combination of grey sticks and greens sprouts. I listened to try to distinguish the great-tit from the blue-tit. To try to figure out why starling calls sounds like a geiger counter. Or something falling from a great height.
Instead I heard the pulsing grind of a car being water-jetted, the rattling whine of a hedge trimmer, the drone and clack of a lawnmower, the lazy buzz of a light aircraft, and the steady thundering whoosh of passing traffic. Seventeen million people changing places for the weekend.
A second water-jet fired up: not another mere electric effort, but a full diesel-powered industrial version that sounded like a generator used to power drilling tarmac.
I wonder about this unusual weather, and I wonder about our urge to create work for ourselves.
When the apocalypse comes, I shall surreptitiously tap into the personal crude oil well that my neighbour seems to be drilling for, in order to ensure a continuing supply.
If you spot a typo, I shall gnaw off an unworthy phalange.