It is windy and stormy here. One fence panel has already succumbed to Storm Doris – and the three at the bottom of the garden, wizened and softly decrepit, huddle together like a trio of ancient men, waiting for the first one to fall over. To say that the grass is wet is to waste adjectives such as sodden, trench-like, soaked and slushy.
Pippa sneaks a delicate fawn paw out of her hutch, has a little sniff and a subdued lollop, her white fur slicked back with rain almost immediately, and then decides that this is not the proper setting for a bunny of her beauty and stature and buggers off back inside, her fluffy beige tail seeming, for a moment, to give the universal one-fingered salute to the world of endless bloody precipitation.
Yesterday was delightfully bright and light-strewn for the most part. My little blue glass pyramid created…
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