ONE DEAD BLACKBIRD AND A SUITCASE

When we got up this morning, the blackbird was dead on the path - its neck torn open and its guts spilling onto the path in little strings.

Ming has folded his space-ship into a 1950’s suitcase. It’s in the shed.

Will it survive if spiders lay eggs in the engine? That’s what’s bothering me.

But Ming is blithe. He’s not, he says, planning to go anywhere!






But I don’t think Lucy from next door believed my story about his Algerian grandparents being Calvinists - not really.

What if she alerts the police?

On ‘Gardener’s Question Time’ they said there won’t be so many aphids this year. (They didn’t mention Martians!)

Leaf buds on the honeysuckle are starting to break open - a very light, bright, heart-inspiring green - and the flowers on the clematis are beginning to unfurl.

(I’m glad to report that the hollyhock still hasn’t been slug-attacked.)

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For Tomorrow