A very small bird flew into my bedroom yesterday. I was cutting down the obnoxious bush at the time and saw something flutter nervously out of it but assumed it was a large moth. It was next seen inside perching awkwardly on my minicomic dispenser, before continuing its insect impersonation by fluttering pathetically against a closed window. I sent Damian into the kitchen for a beer glass, caught it between my cupped palms, took it outside and set it free. It flew lurchily across the garden, slammed into the fence, and dropped to the ground next to the obnoxious bush. Poor little thing, it's probably cat chow by now.
My email has been bouncing. Anyone wondering why I have not gotten back to them, please either re-send to cleanskies @ yahoo.co.uk or drop me a comment here. I'm very sorry, but it really is out of my control.
My other honeysuckle -- which was always on the edge of doing so -- has just died. I don't think anything is going to flower again this year. The nastertiums can't get enough water. The Crocosmia is gasping. Even the Michaelmas Daisies (which are supposed to be indestructible) are beginning to droop. I will randomly blame the BBC for cancelling Gardeners World in favour of athletics. How can I care for the garden without the advice of the delectable Chris Beardshaw?
I finally flipped and sprayed scary bush #2. Hoverflies, Lacewing and Ladybirds went under with blowflies, bluebottle, aphids, thrips, whitefly, mosquitos and wasps. I feel like Herod. Next up, scrubbing the slime from the back wall overflow, which has sprouted an entire ecosystem while I wasn't looking. Without washing away too much of the cheap mortar.