Good day to you again, my readers and fellow sufferers of political ineptitude.
I apologise in part for today's coleric rant (see previous piece) but we are, after all, the Dyspepsia Generation. And there's no earthly point in us complaining about the state of our winter because our snow is but as a piece of cotton lint in comparison to the winter in most of your states. I understand from a casual glance at the NBC bulletins that the white stuff has even reached Florida. Imagine undergoing full body imaging (isn't that what FBI stands for?) just to be a half-frozen snowbird.
Herself and I spent Christmas in our usual hideaway in Fermanagh and, thanks to the horrors of modern technology, I might even be able to put the first ever pic in one of these dispatches. Let us try. Ah well, still beyond my capabilities but I draw comfort from the fact that you light upon this column to read. Gawping you keep for YouTube.
Truly, this is the time of year when things are at their drearest. (Not a typo - just Ulster Scots.) Outside we have finally staggered to the dizzy climatic heights of 35F; there is a very nasty cold rain landing on the glacial ice sheet which covers my driveway and the sky is a glowering grey. However, for those of you reading this in lands where winter has an even tighter grip, I suggest that you look up Thomas Hardy's "Darkling Thrush". To me, this has always been the poetic equivalent of a soaring aria and I hope you derive as much improbable solace from it as I do.
And on that theme, I looked out the window on Saturday and was stunned. Our front garden is a 30 yard patch of grass with roses and fuchsia. The normal birdlife is a motley collection of sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and other ne'er-do-wells hoping to benefit from Mrs C's charity. (Takes one to know one, y'unnerstan.) But lo and behold, not only were we now hosting a couple of oyster catchers - presumably because the seashore was providing no shellfish - but they had been joined by their even longer beaked cousins, the curlews. Now I don't know if you have ever seen a curlew, but that long curved beak is a thing of extremely frightening efficiency and can winkle out just about anything. Like the Chinese State Press Bureau, one supposes.
And as our neighbours are about to tumble their summer houses and have thoughtfully removed all the windows, the oyster catchers and the curlews now have shelter and I have a beautifully and organically aerated front garden, courtesy of two days frantic pecking by my unexpected guests. Snowbirds indeed - and a blink of serendipity amidst the gloom.
Never mind the bleak midwinter - a well-shaken cocktail of the human and the divine is a reminder that the seasons will roll round again. And if they don't, they'll find my frozen fingers still attached to the filter at the bottom of the oil tank........
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