Come Home Dave

Back home to blogging after what Edith Wharton called, "A Dip in the Country" to find all NATO's weapons and Dave launching cruise missiles which we can't afford to replace have not yet killed that nice Colonel Gaddafi.  Perhaps he has gone to stay with his very dear friend, Nelson Mandela, of whom nil nisi sed bonum (even Dave could translate that).  We need the Colonel alive, forever flitting around the African continent, to keep the Libyans together. We should find him and supply him with the necessities of life - food, water and kalashnikovs.  He could hold out for years.

The "season of mists and mellow fruitfulnes" is truly upon us but I am still looking for plums - there is supposed to be a surplus of them.  Waitrose? No. I want a kindly old farmer by the roadside to sell them to me (he might have damsons as well). Perhaps the old farmer is waiting for a subsidy.  Meanwhile Keats' poem sticks in the mind.  I only hope that his use of the word 'twitter' has not been spoiled.

Hedge crickets sing and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden croft

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.