That Chris Packham, though. Did anyone else see him on The Really Wild Show, back in the day, talking about the flora and fauna of the human body? His rapturous description of eyelash mites has really stayed with me over the years, and not in a good way.
Dresses, eh? They're really beginning to annoy me. Also, I'm looking for a pair of brown trousers (yes, OK, make the joke) and there are none. Just a bazillion floaty dresses in migraine inducing Jerry Hall-ish prints which look like they'd spill your boobs if you ran for the bus (or did anything other than stand still at just the right angle, actually). Why are fashions this season so aggravating?
I'm walking the towpath about three times a week now, and every morning outside the furthest oldest boathouse in the row, there's a little fat terrier dog sat, not doing much, while its presumed owner pootles around the boats. The first few times I saw the dog it was sitting so still I thought it was an optical illusion, a trick of morning sunlight. But I've eyedeed it as real now, along with the pair of countrified terns that fish along the common land, the long-tailed tits that are nesting by the cricket pitch, and the untidy pile of drunks on the bench nearest Folly Bridge.
This morning Iffley Lock was being repaired, work placements tottering nervily on rickety-looking floating platforms, balancing piles of shiny wood, new slats for the gates.
All the moorings along there are temporary, so I seldom see the same boat twice. There are treasures among the visitors, though -- a Dutch barge with its mast folded down, a narrowboat covered entirely in a repeating pattern of red ducks. "My daughter did it," said the owner, proudly, "she's a designer."