bee-scuits

Sherlock and Lestrade's creation of the day, bee biscuits. Or, as Lestrade insists, bee-scuits:

With chocolate wings, legs, and stinger, of course. Unlike actual bees, they are delicious. 

The off road place was good. I definitely still have mud in unexpected places, but if that and a few bruises are the worst price we pay for getting to act like complete lunatics for a few hours, I'd say it's more than worth it. 

Sherlock had a ride on the back of L's bike again...he's almost there. Just a touch unstable still. Not quite enough length in his legs, but since he's growing like kudzu, I don't think it'll be too much longer. 

I watched Mycroft go around the track by himself and thought about my father's reaction when I asked him to teach me how to drive: an aghast look, accompanied by a demand to know how old I thought I was. He knew, of course, so I can only assume it was the shock talking. I can sort of understand it now, when I realise that Mycroft will be old enough to have his own bike in a very few years. 

I'm getting into an odd place with the poetry, where the only ones that leap to mind are ones that I suspect will seem vaguely depressing to everyone else and inappropriate for happy posts involving bee-scuits, but that I personally find amusing or hopeful. I'm also trying hard not to make this Millay Month, but nevertheless... 

Spring

Edna St Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.