Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 23 May 2014
You know how to whistle, don't you?
One picture of two women who have never lost their charm (or hair) - H.I. and Lauren Bacall.
I can't remember when I first saw that movie, but she was only 18 when she made it, and I was so jealous of Humph.
I have a friend the same age as me, and when he went off to register the birth of his daughter, he slipped in 'Lauren' as her second name in honour of Miss Bacall, without informing his wife. She only realised what he had done without her consent after she looked at the birth certificate. That's the effect she has on us men - note I say 'has' and not 'had'.
The things that come into this room via that screen.
I am now able to watch the Peregrine Falcons bring up their chick, high up on the Catholic church, 24 hours a day, thanks to the black-light infra red which switches itself on automatically at dusk.
Last night, the last thing we did before going to bed was check up on them. The white chick could be seen scrabbling about beneath the mother (or father - I cannot tell), as the adult on top tried to get a bit of sleep, occasionally glaring out over the parapet before stuffing its head beneath a wing and trying again.
This morning, the adult has stuffed the chick into a corner and up against a wall, to protect it from the awful wind and rain which is lashing at the church tower even harder than it is down here. The feathers are continually ruffled by it. You can see the little patch of blood where they had breakfast, but I missed that event.
That breakfast probably means that there is another chick of a different species somewhere, waiting for a breakfast which may never come. It's a hard life, but someone has to live it.
It is strange to see a bus go past underneath this window, then appear in the top right of the screen a few seconds later. It's even stranger to know that someone else is also watching it, maybe on the other side of the world.
"It's a bit like voyeurism", H.I. said last night.