Great kerfuffles in the garden, the young crows are finding their wings. Already two bangs against the kitchen window tells me that they have yet to learn about glass, but they shake themselves and once more take off for the garage roof and fence. The cat comes indoors he is not brave enough to face the ranks of indignant crow parents.
Today I must pick up my glasses from Malton, last time I drove along there Openreach had the road up into the town with big traffic jams at either end. Road mending is a jolly jape don't you know. There come the 'new road' layers, next come the various utilities and dig into this beautiful virgin surface creating potholes almost before the tarmac is dry. The enormous farm traffic help as well, wearing away the edge of the tarmac from the verge so deep runnels will appear to fill with water in winter and create great ponds across the lanes.
Two things float into my mind as I read through the blogs this morning. Tom Stephenson picture of an old tractor reminds me of holidays in Wales on a farm as a child. The car for the farm, would always sit on bricks, tyres removed, this is what I remember of course. The little old tractor would be used for going anywhere. I remember the farmer taking me down to tidy the grave of parents at the chapel in the tractor. And I being horrified at the way he dug casually into the grave with me scared stiff he would uncover the bones of the incumbent. No one had told me six foot down is the measure of death.
The other thing was Weaver's recollection of childhood toys. I loved the mechanical aspect of creating words with my John Bull printing set, words welcome us into a world of magic from which we can never stop learning. It brings back the memory of Tom my eldest grandchild toddling round the sitting room pointing at the television and saying BBC and then finding it in the Radio Times. His love of words already there, and his excited reaction out in the pushchair as he recognised words on shops and the underneath of lorries.
Yesterday was Wombleton recycling centre. Yes the Wombles live down the road, well at least at the pub! You approach our very small recycling centre down a long dead end lane. It is immaculately kept, you could eat your breakfast off the ground, no kidding. The two men in charge are drinking coffee by the gate, I am ushered in, don't dare put anything in the wrong receptacle. He takes my old computer and the enormous cooking pot I have kept chicken feed in the last few years. Books go into the cardboard and paper stuff, I throw a perfectly good bag of books in there without a single guilty thought going through my head. The small television also meets its end in the electrical goods. Paul liked televisions, we had an enormous 'Smart' one in the sitting room, too big to take on my next journey and there is a smaller one in the guest room, but it is not very smart though!!
Time to get ready...