FIREWORKS. Yesterday granny bought two mice. Some compensation maybe for the rodent slaughter for which she - via feline Houdini - has been responsible on her Canary Island. Said mice were birthday present to Beloved Goddaughter aged 8, are now endlessly running round and round a wheel (doesn't that sound familiar to us, if not the 8 year old?) in a plastic cage next to her bed. Both male mice, no rodent farms required. I will call them, announced delighted BG, with all the solemnity of Adam in Eden, Chomp and Nibble. So there they are chomping and nibbling but not on granny's muesli, let alone granny's books. (The reason for the importation of Feline Houdini. The purloined muesli granny can live with; her books turned into mousebeds, no.) These mice at least will have no such diets or beds: also they are prettier and come with a book called GET TO KNOW YOUR MICE.
Canary Island seems a long way away, ditto Beloved - who is though flying into this one at such an ungodly hour of Sunday morning that he has been persuaded by Granny and his Beloved Daughter - with difficulty - to take a taxi rather than expect collection by either of them.
This much bigger island is in mourning. The Guardian second section yesterday gave over its whole front page to black. And the words; OH, GOD. Granny's email inbox is stuffed with despairing messages from American friends. The fireworks this evening, wails, bangs, shrieks, seem prescient - if also like the pet mice, much prettier than the feral version. Enough. We are weary. Grannyp