Mighty greenish white plumes of slightly fluffy looking stuff. I should have been quicker to realise what was happening to my rhubarb and when I checked on the sagacious nettyweb I was told in no uncertain terms that rhubarb flowers must be expurgated forthwith as they exhaust the root stock and diminish stalk production. So, not quite forthwith, more like eighthwith, me and The Girl set off armed with Jussi's brutal stable knife to do the deed. We removed several flower heads like the ones pictured from one of the rhubarb patches. The pictures look dark and grainy cos that's the sort of day we had yesterday - dark and drizzly and dreich - and we have the same today. But it's heading South readers so you'd better be rid of those smug grins.
We had some sun last week. I was out planting and this bird seems to use the dog rose in the corner of the veg patch as a territorial marker and was singing its wee head off all the while (its tweeting would put Unite union negotiators to shame I'm telling ya). I mean don't get me wrong - spring, birds tweeting - lovely - but this little bugga did somewhat try my patience after a while. No idea what sort of bird it is - only that it is a bloody noisy one and its still there.
Meanwhile our chucks have settled in nicely and are gradually increasing the size of the four-eggs-a-day they are giving us. They also like to help in the other veg patch (they're not allowed in the main patch). Last week I was planting beans, 2 inches deep, and one of the chickens was following carefully picking up each planted bean and throwing it to one side. But it was all done in a very friendly way so I didn't mind. Anyway, we need more visitors to help us eat all these eggs - quite apart from the fact that the grass is growing and therefore need helpful scythewomen and men to play the jolly reaper. And the beer's ready. Good beer too. Even more beer than we have eggs.
And in the middle of applying for another job some idiotic recruitment professional has decided to invite me for an interview so that in my head, on the one hand I've always wanted to build tables, and on the other my life's ambition is to break tables into matchsticks, so to speak. Obviously the jobs aren't so diametrically opposed but I'm still finding the schizophrenia surprisingly troublesome.
4 comments:
if your birdy goes 'chiff chaff, chiff chaff, chiff chiff CHAFF,' ad nauseum it's almost definitely a chiff chaff
If it starts off confidently singing and then trails off as though it's in the pub laying down the law and it's lost the thread of its argument and suddenly everyone's looking at it, then it's a willow warbler
or possibly it's a sedge warbler, which sounds positively demented.
Ah! I had hoped the piccy would answer the question to someone as knowledgeable as yourself but it doesn't open so I guess it's hard to see. I'm fairly sure it's not a chiff chaff - some kind of warbler. But as I'm usually the one laying down the law in the pub dementedly before losing the thread, the difference between willow and sedge requires too much self awareness to be able to discriminate...
Ah so that's what would have happened if a sensible guest hadn't insisted I slice off the offending rhubarb flowers when they first appearered? Impressive!
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