What alot of rhubarb!

Being prone to slightest nip, breeze or chill my plans for giving Sissinghurst gardens a run for its money as been laid bare. Instead I have done the daily "Tour of death" first thing where any f00l hardy slug that DARES to eat my delphiniums and asters is executed via pen knife. Probably the kindest death and free food for the blackbirds. I really don't enjoy the process even though I do hiss "Bastard!" every time I catch sight of one.
Once the killing field has taken place I inspect the veg patch. All a little slow, dear reader, but then as I said, so am I in this weather. What does abound with unfailing regularity(!) is the "Early Timberly" rhubarb. I'd quite like a dress in these colours. Not that I would garden in it, as Alys Fowler has a tendency to do. I tried it in the Easter holidays. Not intentionally. Merely became distracted and started pruning the cherry tree and there lay the snag- quite literally in my new cardigan's sleeve. I now have to resort back to my more comfortable, albeit, care in the community look!
I have taken refuge under the nursing home blanket and added 2 more flags to my crocheted bunting. Not every ones idea of a party but it does bring me deep satisfaction to work the wool and wooden needle together. It lulls me like a lullaby and restores what has become frayed throughout the week.
Wool marks my territory around the house and is found by the sofas, like a nest of small bidable animals. They all vary is size, colour and texture and when fully grown will become a permenant member of the fold. Oh, so many of these creations to make whole.

Legs!

Troll! This is now what I think about our local heron, who I have seen 3 times this week being chased off by some very angry seagulls and a crow. How interesting thought I. I wondered if he was responsible for the frog massacre I discovered by the pond last month. All terribly upsetting - enough to hex every local cat, as I, then, presumed before dissolving into a rather prolonged weeping session. (probably over-tired,as Mother would say, nodding sagely)

It was therefore a somewhat " Euw!" moment, when on Monday, as I toured the estate, I found a lone pair if frog's legs in the bird bath! A cat would not chose to eat a frog on top of a bird bath, and so I conclude, dear Watson, that the heron is responsible. I have called him Herod and put a net over the pond.