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The hunter finds his prey, his keen ears having detected the kitchen door opening.
Fleet of foot, he advances on the unsuspecting greens.
Ignoring the high pitched screams of the basil, coriander, carrot tops, mint, watercress and curly kale, he satisfies his terrible hunger.
Sweet peppers are a delicacy traditionally hand fed afterwards as a reward for his prowess.
How can he enjoy nature’s finest bounty, and yet also go gaga over this?
(For all I know, he observes me eating my usual
as cold cereal and thinks WTF?)
From what we’ve seen in pet shops and online, some bunnies practically live on nuggets, which were more or less invented to fatten rabbits for slaughter. Too much is a recipe for disaster. He’s allowed them because we figure they have nutrients he might be missing out on, as he can’t forage like his wild cousins. In other words, the nuggets are akin to this
and probably have more vitamins than this,
fortunately not all of which goes down the hatch.
Under his chair, planning the next hunt.
Maybe next time…
These days I fancy bicycles a lot more than cars, but I had good times over the years in the following:
1972 Pontiac Lemans, quite used when I bought it. My first. Automatic, I think. Blue with unpainted bondo in one of the rear quarter panels. Lovely bench seats – remember those? Not necessarily the most comfortable, but if your sweetie was riding shotgun [note: I had no sweetie then] it made for better scooching over than bucket seats…
Late 70s or early 80s Mazda, don’t remember the model. Nothing special. Automatic.
Volkswagon Dasher, also of uncertain vintage and transmission. My hair was a little longer then, too.
On the road again: Toyota Tercel, stick shift. I loved this car. Treated it terribly; apparently had no idea that Toyotas needed oil. Burned out an engine, replaced it. Totalled when somebody rammed into me zooming out of a gas station. My introduction to the jaws of life.
My wife had a red car for a while. Sorry, don’t remember what it was. Automatic. It suffered from various seemingly undiagnosable ailments, and applying the brakes could require advanced notice.
Nissan Sentra, she has just told me.
1992 Toyota Corolla, automatic. Bought with 5k miles, the newest car we’ve ever owned. Carried us across the US. Eventually shipped it to the UK, the mafia-types who booked it in at Port Elizabeth NJ warning us not to leave the dustbuster in the back seat as it might get stolen. Turns out goodfellas give good advice.
Very fond of this one, which my mechanic always called a “left hooker”. Died of neglect (a broken heart, it’s said) when we both went without a British licence for a stretch.
2005 Toyota Corolla, automatic; a “right hooker”, if you will. It gets us where we need to go, and the local fauna like it.
Nor Labour MP Emily Thornberry, one of the speakers outside parliament protesting the presidential visit and generally all things Tory.
Nor Mark Rylance, as seeing him on the small screen doesn’t count.
This is who I’m talking about:
I was hardly in my element yesterday, as I don’t like crowds,
(we all have disreputable bedfellows at times)
and don’t see myself voting Labour again any time soon.
But as happens so often, London beckoned.
I can’t imagine Lilibet was giddy with excitement at another opportunity to do her duty, even as the BBC graphically wet itself with anticipation.
Balloonists, on the other hand, had a field day.
As did punsters,
and anyone in the mood to rattle some cages.
My goal for the afternoon had been to see Jeremy Corbyn, if only for ammunition to give him a speech balloon. This was not to be, as he took to a platform on Whitehall rather than the expected patch of green surrounded by stone cold worthies where I had stationed myself.
Every party needs a DJ. Ours started with Comfortably
which would come to half describe my arm after holding an umbrella for an hour. Then came the relentless rain and reggae (even groovy tunes can wear one down).
Midway through the speakers
I packed it in and commenced escape, only to be stopped short opposite Green Park, where a hassled but humbled group of us were barred from crossing the empty road for an indeterminate length of time.
The only sure way across the border was to catch a train. One expects to be herded through cattle fencing during such events,
but this seemed a pointless exercise in creating a power vacuum.
Before heading home I stopped by the National Gallery. It looked a little like a protest was going on there, too.
Today marks my 123rd day without sugar. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up, say, ketchup, which needs it to keep the tomatoes in line. It means saying no to foodstuffs like this
So basically, everything that makes a life worth living. Though frankly I can live without apples for another 123 days.
This isn’t the first time I’ve deprived my body of the building blocks of fat. In 2016 I managed a similar fast that lasted almost as long, and reduced to my lowest weight in decades. (Cutting down my usual grazing to three meals a day also helped.) Unfortunately I then spent the next couple of years suffering a case of sugar-induced amnesia that made me forget how good it had felt to be 32 again.
It’s been easier this time. Except for a pop tart [what I call all toaster pastry products by default] -related delirium about a week ago, I honestly haven’t had cravings.
I sense this has to end at some point. It isn’t sustainable. The centre cannot hold. But perhaps it can get smaller first.
PS. “Did you photoshop that ‘Mmm’?” my wife asked. No I did not.