Seen in the garden today for the first time - a goldcrest.
Along with the firecrest, it's Britain's smallest bird.
Isn't he lovely!
(PLEASE don't forget to FEED THE BIRDS)


Kev sent me an email the other day which, I think, is so masterful, so intelligent and so elegant that it deserves a blogposting all to itself.

It’s another word-based contribution, for which, however, I make no apology at all.

It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate.

I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the cloakroom when I saw her standing alone in a corner.  She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array.  Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way.

I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I'd have to make bones about it since I was travelling cognito.  Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened.  And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn't be peccable.  Only toward and heard-of behavior would do.

Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim.  I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion.

So I decided not to risk it.

But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make head or tail of.

I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen.  Normally, I have a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated - as if this were something I was great shakes at - and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times.

So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings.

Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous.  Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d'oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself.

She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savory character who was up to some good.

She told me her name. ‘What a perfect nomer’, I said, advertently.  The conversation become more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail.

But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour.  I asked if she wanted to come with me.  To my delight, she was committal.  We left the party together and have been together ever since.

I have given her my love, and she has requited it.

A linguistic masterpiece which I am going to print off to be framed and hung in the toilet, where it will do most good.

How many 'non-standard negations' can you count?

Thanks Kev - you’re a star!


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