I hate technology - pre-tech woman, me. Attempt this morning to set up comment possibility for this blog failed dismally. Ditto to put links. Also for one link I need RSS and you can't get this except by being blogger pro, and right now they've stopped taking on new upgrades, so it's all catch22.
Beloved and painter are off a'fishing, so I'm typing this, crossly, and listening to Geoffrey Hill on Private Passions on Radio 3. He has one of those slow, turgid, professorial voices - currently intoning a line as if it's poetry. Worcestershire born and bred - which makes me sigh nostalgically for Birmingham. Elgar followed by Coventry Carol. That's so far.
Will beloved catch fish? Don't know. We have a rock pool in our kitchen. In it various bloodthirsty marine creatures have come and gone. Longest living is large crab which dines off anything it can get - mostly hermit crabs and snails which it cracks and scoops out. It also grabs up sea urchins - sea anenomes, even, lately, fish. Previous crab got eaten by an octopus - octopus did not survive powercut - airline went and it suffocated. Same thing happened to equally large and carnivorous starfish that pinned a fish against the glass, and proceed to eat it; not eating as you and I do; it was more as if the fish, slowly, evaporated before our eyes. Anenomes engulf what they catch and swallow. Hermits, before the crab gets them scuttle about at bottom of tank eating anything there.
The crab changed shells once. The old one lay entire on the sand and cracked remains of shells at the bottom of the tank.
How had it got out?
People walk into our kitchen and stand staring, mesmerised, slightly horrified that we live, benignly. in view of all this carnage. Frail creatures, people