More excited, though, to see a blackbird on the tail of some large ungainly insect, weaving behind it like a bat after a moth. I'd always thought of them as hoppers, worm-pullers; I suppose it must've been a particularly delicious-looking insect, perhaps one of the bees I saw drunkenly falling off the mock-orange bushes earlier. Got to get me some of that, it's lovely -- although I should probably ease off on the shrub habit. I bought two roses last week, one called "Carefree Days", and the other called "Lucky Star".
My fault for walking around the garden shop at twilight, when they're watering the plants and everything is fragrant and sparkling. The Japanese gardener perched on the railings, spraying the Busy Lizzies with a blissed-out smile on his face.
Today the website I have been aimlessly paging through is this antique guide to the UK's many entrances to hell.
Tomorrow it's Andy's funeral. At the weekend get-together (stickismyfriend's big number birthday party) someone I thought had known him pretty well, certainly better than me, said, "I hadn't seen him for ten years"; I kind of gaped. But I suppose it has been a while, at that, since one of us pointed at Andy disappearing out of Russell Square tube station, portfolio in hand, and said, "he looks like he knows where he's going, let's follow him."