hawkeye

I feel like L posted this already in the comments somewhere, but in case he didn't, here is Rufus the pigeon chasing hawk of Wimbledon. And if anyone knows who's doing the voiceover, I would really like to know. He sounds so familiar.

One of the first times Sherlock watched tennis with me, one of the commentators talked about Federer's dislike of Hawkeye, and Sherlock was convinced for days that Hawkeye must be an actual person, because who would dislike a computer system, that just wouldn't make any sense, right? I have a picture he drew somewhere of Hawkeye scowling. He had an eyepatch I believe.

We have Mycroft home again with all his things, all over the living room, and all his dogs, also all over the living room (and Anthea, not all over the living room). He said there was no point taking it all up to his room as he'd have to bring it down to wash most of it tomorrow, which I think means he's turning into an actual teenager. Also his shoes have formed a nest with L's by the door to trip unwary newcomers.

And now I should probably get to bed. L and I have been up talking about the op he has coming up, which I mention only as an excuse for being up so late because I know you lot will worry otherwise. It's...not ideal, but nothing too bad. And of course if it goes well, the result will be a very good one, so fingers crossed. 

in the street

First, this:



I was hoping to get this up in time for L to see it at work and hurt himself trying not to laugh, but obviously I didn't make it.

Sports day was good. No serious injuries, no incidents of vomiting due to excess cake ingestion. At least not any that I had to clean up. The way some of the children were bouncing around, there might've been problems in the car on the way home.

As reported in the comments, L lost in the sack. Race. I did all right in mine. I'm fairly sure Sherlock won at consuming the most cake and also at thrusting slices upon people while informing them that he helped make it, which was only slightly true. He did help with the icing the night before. The lemon one with potatoes in did not taste at all like potatoes. It was delicious.

The Army instilled a certain wariness of obstacle courses in me, but one of you said that it would probably be designed for small children and not very fit parents, and you were quite right, which was a relief. The last time I did one, there was mud and icy rain and definitely no cake afterward. This was an improvement.

In tennis news, Wimbledon is coming up, and L suggested doing a thing for that like we're doing for the football, and Becca has kindly volunteered to set us up with something. Don't worry if you don't know anything about it. No one really knows what's going to happen. You can make assumptions, but all it takes is one bad day and the favorite is out in the second round. 

put up a plaque

A couple of pictures from yesterday. The Red Arrows, against a dramatically cloudy sky. They picked a good day for it, didn't they? Couldn't look better against pure blue. 

And then there's this... Floor plaque in a crypt we wandered into. That sounds...not quite right. It was open to the public. There was no breaking and entering involved.

Although Sherlock did say he wanted the plaque for his bedroom. I imagine by the time he's fourteen, he'll want the walls painted black with glow in the dark skulls and posters of Mozart and Nicola Tesla taped to his ceiling. Something like that.

Not pictured: a lot of naked (and occasionally clothed) people on bicycles. If you want to know why, you can check the comments in L's blog, but I prefer it without context. Just loads of people riding bikes in the nude.

It's been a lovely weekend. Back to usual tomorrow, and I have work as well. I'm glad I'm doing this job, and I wouldn't want to stop, but there are times that I dread getting called out, not knowing if it'll  be someone who's had enough vodka to kill a cow or a kid who's done nothing but exist in the same flat as his father when his father's had not quite enough vodka to kill a cow.

I fell asleep briefly last night watching L watch the football with Sherlock, both of them intent, in much the same posture, hunched forward, hands gripping knees. I woke up at their collective  shriek of...I'm not even sure whether it was victory or defeat, I didn't see the goal. Just flailed a bit and fell off the couch. I just feel incredibly lucky sometimes, and that was one of those times, despite being prostrate on the floor with a small cat helpfully licking my hair while Sherlock laughed and Greg asked me if I'd hurt myself...and then laughed. 

desert flowers

Keith Douglas was wounded by a mine in north Africa in World War II. You can read more about him here if you want to. This poem, says the article, was most likely written while he was recovering in El Ballah General Hospital, Palestine, in 1943.

Desert Flowers
Keith Douglas
 
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers –
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying –
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying

the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not news. Each time the night discards

draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.

I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.

I haven't been out to Red's grave yet this year. Things got complicated with half term and trips and chickenpox and sad little cone cats. I'd like to go soon though. I had meant to tell you a story about him, but it's late and I'm somehow still awake, but only in body. My brain isn't up to much right now. You know those nights when there is no logical reason you should still be awake, but you are? Yeah.

Instead, here is the picture of our blueberry bush that I couldn't find before. No flowers, as you see. It's probably too late to flower now, isn't it? Next year.

We've got kale planted as well and coming up with tiny, oddly shaped leaves. That's a first for us this year and for me specifically. My mum never grew it.

Maf keeps headbutting me with the edge of her cone. Trust her to come up with a way to weaponise it. I think she wants me back in bed with my head in the appropriate spot for her to curl up around it. I'll go and give it another try. Wish me luck.

cone of shame

Maf has been in for her operation. We now have a small cone cat.

She is not happy with me, but she still prefers to be bodily attached to me at all times. I assume so she can stick her claws in whenever she wants to. The worst was fishing her out from behind the refrigerator today. Claw marks nearly all the way from my wrist to my elbow. She doesn't seem to have done herself any harm in her short time without the cone though, so that's good.  

The allotment is doing well. Here is some chard that the squirrels haven't eaten yet. We're going to have to replant the rest.

Chives... Looking happy and delicious.

Those red beans that are meant to grow as long as someone's arm. Tiny right now, of course, but we have high hopes.

And cucumbers with a frame for them to climb up. We've got some lettuce planted under the frame so that the cucumbers can shade it if it gets too hot.

I thought I had a picture of the supposedly pink blueberry bush from last year, But I can't find it. It's not doing anything yet anyway, and I think it should have flowered by now if it were going to. Looks healthy though. We might have to wait another year for berries.

puzzlewood

We went to Puzzlewood. Here are some photos which are definitely not ours - they're much too good.

It's really...I feel like the word magical gets overused a lot, but it seems apt in this case. Even shared with a load of other people with children to entertain over half term, it was pretty amazing. Makes you wonder what it would be like to come upon it unexpectedly, alone, like walking into A Midsummer Night's Dream.

That's my opinion, anyway. Sherlock had his own ideas: i.e. it was a very large, green pirate ship, particularly the bridges. Well, obviously, right? There was a lot of stick fencing, primarily between Sherlock and the air, but at one point he called Mycroft's dogs (not present to defend themselves) blackguards, and there was a duel. Invisible flintlock pistols at (nowhere near) dawn, fairly tame piratey insults exchanged...

S: Your mum's...a hopeless landlubber!
M: She gets a bit seasick, that's all. I think that's uncalled for.

I sent the video to Mrs H. She firmly denies getting seasick at all, ever.