As I pull back the curtains in the living room this morning to welcome in another sunny day, I become aware of a butterfly fluttering desperately against the window as it tries to escape. Poor thing! I open the patio doors
and try to encourage it to flutter towards the Great Outdoors but it doesn't seem to understand me. I need to brush up on my Butterfly Language.
Mr B wants to
know who I am talking to so I explain about our uninvited house guest. He (Mr B, not the butterfly) suggests I should be able to cup the Fluttering One in my hands and ease it out of the door. I'm not sure I can manage this, being afraid I will crush
it in my clumsy hands. I couldn't bear to have death on my hands; I am worried enough about the tomato plants which I relocated yesterday afternoon into new, Tomorite-enriched growbags but which appear to be suffering from the move. It's Tomato-gate - and
in our back garden too.
I used to be pretty good at Butterfly Identification when I was a littl’un, being the proud possessor of both the I-Spy book of butterflies
and a useful small brown covered manual entitled “A Book of British Butterflies.” Oh, yes indeed,I knew my Peacock from my Red Admiral. And some. Unfortunately I'm not sure about our Flying Intruder, apart from knowing it is neither Peacock nor
Red Admiral. Mr B says what does it matter, so long as it flies away?
I decide to open the top window which might ease the butterfly’s progress but I can't
find the key to unlock it. The window, the window, not the butterfly for heaven’s sake. Mr B says I must have put it (as in, the key) somewhere which is true but singularly unhelpful. I go upstairs to fetch a key from one of the bedroom windows but this
turns out to be a Different Type of Key. Things are going from bad to worse - when all of a sudden the Beautiful One makes a last desperate bid for freedom and flies out of the patio doors. Panic over. I make a mental note that I need to find the key to the
window - then forget all about this Sensible Thought until I come to write today's Daily Blog.
I walk to Church, trying to recall Butterflies I Have Known. What
with eye ops and family celebrations, I have missed three Sundays in a row. Everyone appears pleased to see me once more in my customary pew, one from the back (I know my place.) Jill forsakes her normal seat in the front pews and comes to join me, greeting
me with a hug and a kiss. The guys in the row behind beam a welcome. Ian says it has made his day to see me again - which is surely an exaggeration of the highest order - and fetches me a cup of coffee at the end of the service, even though it's almost certainly
my turn. The sermon is all about laying down our burdens and I think of several dear friends currently weighed down with the heaviest of loads and hope they’ll find relief some time soon.
Arriving home I have a chat with my next door neighbour and his next door neighbour. Each has a good idea for how I can tackle the heatwave. One good idea involves a sheet, the other a Coca-Cola bottle filled with ice. By
the time I make it indoors and Mr B has filled me in on the details of the two telephone calls I have missed, I've completely forgotten what I need to do with both sheet and Coca-Cola bottle - so I raid the freezer and serve us up a bowl of ice-cream each.
Outside, somewhere, my butterfly is flying free. Mr B is a Happy Bunny because England has won the Test Match. I'm a Happy Bunny because he's a Happy Bunny.
Whatever Forrest Gump may say, I know better. Life is a bowl of ice-cream.