It’s all change here. Poppy is wearing her safety helmet because the house martins are back. They swoop on her in the middle of the back lawn and thoroughly frighten her. No 1 has suggested that what we need is eight tons of gravel next Saturday so that we can recapture that satisfying crunching sound as we drive through the arch. Perhaps we might have a party when it is over.
I’m still trying to stir myself to some interest in the Election Campaign – most unlike me because I am at heart something of a political junkie. For the moment, I am contenting myself with saying ‘balanced’ every time somebody says ‘hung’. I think it may be some time before we achieve the sophistication of PR elections in the Irish Republic where political parties sometimes seek to maximise the vote by listing different candidates from the same list as No 1 at different ends of the same town.
Maybe it would be safer for me to ponder Stephen Hawking’s warning that we should not attempt to engage with aliens if we happen to meet them. But how will I recognise them?