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Each autumn, during my retirement in the late seventies and early eighties of last century, was given-over to worshipping the gods of migration…
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Miserabile dictu!
Dark at five o’clock. What travesty is this?
Why did my ancestors feel the need to wander north from sunny Africa, where there never is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not clouded all day?
And if they insisted on leaving Africa—I don’t know, perhaps I’m descended from a line of antelopophobes—couldn’t they have stopped in Sicily or Portugal or somewhere, instead of trekking all the way up to these dismal latitudes?
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‘Over 2,000 high-resolution images scanned from more than 100 different old books, with extracts from the books!’
Not a very good picture, not least because they’re all camouflaged, but look at all the ring-necked parakeets in the garden:
I think there are ten in the picture, though some of them are rather hidden. Attractive birds, even if they are noisy little buggers.
I thought I’d post the picture I took of what is perhaps the fattest tree in Kew Gardens. Or perhaps just the fattest relative to its height. Its fatness is so impressive that I wonder if there’s some kind of odd mutation or something going on above and beyond the effects of age and pollarding.
I didn’t get a picture that showed the overall shape—you’d probably need to wait for all the leaves to drop—but you can see by the size of the name label and the leaves that this is a big lump of tree.
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“You awaken in a large complex, slightly disoriented. Glowing dots hover mouth level near you in every direction. Off in the distance you hear the faint howling of what you can only imagine must be some sort of ghost or several ghosts” via Super Colossal.
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‘The appeal of tiny nuptials between children, stuffed kittens, and other small, cute things.’ via Metafilter, an interesting and entertaining essay.