Holy Hats

Well well. A pope has been buried attended by every breed of Holy Hat - why do religious men of all breeds and denominations, Christian and otherwise, adopt such curious headgear even when they're not sitting in an enormous Roman square alongside a rather plain coffin containing one dead pontiff? A lot of unlikely people shook hands thereafter: the Syrian Prime Minister with an Israeli, an English Prince with Mugabe, accidentally or otherwise. And the very same sinning Prince - who some of the day before's hat would have had flogged at least, while stoning his bride to death - has been married attended by more hats, mostly female this time, some of them feathered. And a horse with the appropriate name of Hedgehopper* has won the Grand National - making up for his failure to hop the final hedge last time round.

Meanwhile, at home on the farm more frills and feathers have arrived. A purplish sea-slug/rabbit with white frills and toppings is now hoovering up the algae in the kitchen rockpool. Granny has ceased to think of him as monstrous; she even finds him pretty, horns, ears and all. And 10 half-grown chooks are making themselves at home in Beloved's especially aqcquired shed. Two of them are male. One has been named after Mr Handsome from Blackburn. Granny suggested naming the other after Beloved until it was pointed out that as soon as they are fully grown, one of them is destined for the pot. Not wishing to cause a diplomatic incident, she has settled for Handsome One and Two instead.

Beloved Granddaughter has just finished devouring her 7th pizza of the week. She is on holiday after all, at least until tomorrow when the Beloveds all go home. The wind is howling already in sympathy. Perhaps the trade winds have arrived already. Better maybe than frost in Bristol, where they are going. Or maybe not.

*Hedgehunter, not Hedgehopper, Granny is informed. But she prefers to stick with 'Hedgehopper.'