Midnight Raid by Peter the Pine Marten. Shock horror exposé probe! – William Frederick
Before I launch into the exploits of our local Pine Marten I would like to mention the weather. We seem once again to be following in the footsteps of our American Cousins in that we, in the UK, have started naming our storms. The Cousins must find it hilarious that the Brits feel compelled yet again to copy what they have done. In fact I have it from a colleague in the Foreign Office that the Whitehouse have a monthly meeting were hilarity oft ensues as they think up ever more bizarre things for us to imitate.
Yesterday and today we have been mauled by autumn storm Abigail which, if described as wild, would amount to an understatement of epic proportion. As I write this deathless prose, our slatted wooden ceilings are heaving up and down and creaking like a pensioner’s back, due to the the pressure changes in the loft as one wave of wind crashes against the house, followed by another. The wave analogy works just fine for me, I know full-well that it’s not water but invisible air crashing onto the roof and walls which behaves just as though we are in a wild tumultuous ocean. In compliance with the alphabetical storm naming of our Cousins, we will no doubt soon be visited by some more seasonal storms, given in our case, wimpish names like storm Bartholomew followed storm Camilla.
Early this morning at the crack of ten, I was in the kitchen manfully holding a mug of nearly hot coffee whilst looking out of the window at the majestic array of autumnal colours that bedeck the mature trees lining the banks of our local river. In its turn, the river was tumbling joyously down the glen to pass by our isolated home at a distance of some thirty yards before it headed on down to the loch. The leaves displayed every hue and shade of earthy red, turmeric yellow and brown selected from the brief autumnal colour spectrum. The rich golden ochre of the silver birch gave way to the golden red foliage of our rowan trees. The golden brown oaks blended into the golden bronze of the hazel, which in its turn vaulted purposefully into the deep golden brown of the alder before being brought to an abrupt halt as the author had run out of autumnal colours, even golden ones!
Further to my recent post regarding a foreign and completely unauthorised mouse found living the high life in our car, Beloved and I thought that the sorry story was now over, especially in view of my bit of advanced mouse whispering.
As a precaution, we put the humane traps back in the car on a ‘just in case’ basis, feeling sure that this was more of a belt and braces precaution than a concern, as I’m sure that you will understand.
Imagine our horror when on jumping into said car this afternoon we discovered THREE MICE in one of the humane traps!!!
Mouse whispering was once again employed. But today, it was at full volume! I opened the trap and placed it into the long grass shouting, “Fu** O** you furry little bas****s!”
I think that it’s time for a new car…
Please donate vast sums of money to William Frederick, Author and thoroughly skint chap… or buy my books! :O)
[For our American cousins who may not know the word skint, it means broke, having no money and being completely without funds].
“I was right!” or rather Beloved was right and, as her partner and protector, I was right too!
Do you ever wish that you could put someone down like Woody Allen does when he suddenly produces the Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan in the film Annie Hall? You remember… It’s the scene where Woody and Annie are standing in a movie queue waiting to take their seats in the cinema.
You may have noticed a certain abundance of wildlife stories in my blog. I retired to Argyll, self built a log home with Beloved and settled down to write. It was then that the mice found a drainage hole that I had not blocked and made an invasion of said home.
Author’s note: Mouse holes are notoriously difficult to block as the nippy little buggers refuse to keep still.
Yesterday started badly and quickly became much worse after a sausage, egg, baked-beans and toast breakfast avalanche.
Being a thoughtful and intelligent chap, I decided to save time and improve my productivity by taking my modest breakfast, a platter of: Cumberland sausages, eggs, black pudding, liver sausage, hash browns, potato waffles, bacon, fried bread, fried tomatoes and butter-fried mushrooms (strictly for health reasons) and toast, into the study so that I could eat at my desk and work on my precious iMac.
I’m in the process of building an RSS Feeds list to provide my trusty followers with some up-to-date, serious and silly, news content from the Spy World. Take a peep at the world of lies, deceit, evasion and diversion, that is situation normal for Agent Bertram. See what’s going on in the world of finance and what the banksters are getting up to.
The RSS Feeds thingy will gather news snippets and push them to my RSS Feeds page for your delight and ridicule.
In the meantime have a good week, knowing that the lunatics are truly running the asylum and our politicians have less power and influence and are more corrupt than ever before.
Who is running the world? Find out here!… when I have grappled the apps and widgets into submission.
Autumn is without doubt, my favourite time of year. This morning we were treated to our first hard frost of the season, after a night of clear sky where The Plough cut its furrow in the northern sky and Orion hunted in the southeast. The Little Bear could be seen plainly and The Milky Way appeared as a streak of white running from Northwest to Southeast at the time of observation, before the cold forced me back in to the warm coziness of our log home. So, I feel moved to copy for you, an update from the facebook page that I set up some time back, to warn of what Agent Bertram might be getting up to.
The sands of time that lured upon our house are now in the deep bosom of Loch Awe, buried… in the windmills of your mind, any way the wind blows…
Life here in Argyll is pretty good as autumn wanders in. It has been a poor summer if you look only at the weather but, if you live with the weather rather than fight against it, it’s been a lovely summer. As The Big Yin (Billy Connolly) once said, “There’s no such thing as bad weather. Just inappropriate clothing.” On behalf of struggling writers everywhere, my answer to Big Yin would be, “That’s fine for you to say when you are a millionaire Scotsman who can afford any amount of waxed cottons and Gore-Tex but for the rest of us the weather up here has been rubbish!”
Anyone who lives here would acknowledge that it has been short summer. It started late after a very cold spring and now the autumn leaves are already well into their golden demise. Our American cousins use the words The Fall to describe this autumnal change where the leaves turn golden brown and yellow and then drop to the floor covering everything and making life difficult for the infirm. The Fall is such a well chosen phrase and, as far as I’m concerned, hits the horses nose bang on the nail’s… head’s… money.
A boy, in leaves.
I remember well, time spent as a lad, kicking through mounds of fallen leaves in the gutter along the appropriately named Bushey Road and Barnsbury Road near to my primary school only to find that some blighter had hidden within, a brick or a heap of dog shit. Happy days…