One fledgling spadger sits precariously on Hard Hattie. Considering the incredible monsoon weather, Hattie is about the only warm, dryish spot for miles. I'm sure she can feel the wee bird, but what can she do? Her arms aren't long enough to swipe at it. She can't run fast enough to dislodge it. It must be like having a hugely irritating boss to whom you just can't speak your mind, no matter how much your nerves are screaming "I've got to DO something about that squirt!".But I suppose to be a tortoise is to be calm, accepting and philosophical. Taking life slow. Munching thoughtfully on greenery, nothing too rich to stir up the blood or humours.
I am nothing like a tortoise, notwithstanding my increasingly wrinkly hands, tortured by farm stuff and gardening. If I had to choose, a Bernese Mountain dog would, obviously, not be far from the top of the list, but in truth? My inner self is one of these. My outer self is one of these. And my aspirational self, definitely one of these.
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Dear Mrs Slothshrewtiger... interesting concept... seeing oneself in animal terms... I think the inner me is an owl up all night perusing the undergrowth, the outer me is a worker ant busily doing my bit in a chain of command but the aspirational me is also a Bengal tiger, so watch out as you lick your paws I am already sneaking up on you from behind! Grrrr! Down tiger! Or in the case of Hull City - Up The Tigers!
Not sure I have an aspirational self any more - which pobably means it's a tortoise! Certainly not a tiger.
Hattie looks so contented, even with her passenger. Sigh!
I wonder just how heavy that bird feels to Hattie
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