K is for Konfusing Kites (I know it's Sunday we dont do the A to Z on Sunday . . . . in May?)

As many of you know I live right on the edge of Wales these days just a stones throw away from the border in the Shropshire rolling hills (I have never seen them roll but I am told they do).  Many moons ago well a while back it was decided that the Red Kite should be reintroduced to Mid-Wales and so a breading (Breed . . . sorry Mr ESB I blame qwerty keyboards) program was started.  However few people know the tale of the confused kites.

You see back when this happened there was a lot of cross border activity between English and Welsh conservationists, which would normally be fine, but stuff can get confused in translation. Welsh conservationists like to speak Welsh, not the cursed imported tongue of the Heathen English Devil folk. But translating between English and Welsh can have all sorts of little subtle anomalies which can change things rather radically. So when the Welsh conservationists first asked their English counterparts if they minded sending a few kites over in some boxes; and the English said they had loads of spare ones and it was not a problem . . . .  they were very happy. However they were not so happy when a few days later a large box arrived full of Box Kites, well when I say not happy, Evans the Kite was as happy as Larry, he liked Box kites and spent many a happy day on the beach at Aberystwyth larking about. You can see how Evans the Kite got his name and got fired.

Of course the Welsh got rather upset and called the English Conservationists Heathen English Devil folk and said they wanted to breed kites and reintroduce then to the wild. But the English did not take kindly to being called Heathen English Devil folk so send another two boxes to the Welsh . . . . . . One said MALE and the other FEMALE, the Welsh got all excited again but when they opened the boxes they were full of Box Kites and a small note saying  . . . . GOOD LUCK . . .HA HAH AH HAH AH HA HAH HA HAH AH HAH AH Hah a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah ahah ah ah ah ahha ha hahaha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha.

It all got out of hand for a while and several unsuspecting English bird watches had their Welsh Hides burnt to the ground, but it was sorted in the end and now Red Kites have successfully reintroduced themselves to Wales. In fact they are so successful they are all over the DAMN place and just recently the Welsh Box Kite Association (Life President . . . Evans the Kite) complained they keep attacking their Box Kites in some sort of petty revenge for something that was not the fault of the Box Kites. Sadly box Kites still don’t breed in Wales and sightings are incredibly rare, partly due to vengeful Red Kites. 

Ooooooooooo yes I’m still having a few problems with that door. It is to put it bluntly Unhinged . . .HAH AH HA HAH AH HA HAH AH Hahh a hahah ah ah ha ha haha hahah ah ahha ha ha ha hah.   

Climbing hills, Art and Gazebos Flying South for the Winter....

Today saw the arrival of one of Britain’s truly classic events, something that has happened as regular as clockwork (we all love a bit of clockwork stuff) since the beginning of time, or at least the beginning of Britain. Yes today saw the arrival of a cold dull damp windy Sunday, just like the old days when grown men were small and small children were told to climb the chimney because it needed a bit of a clean.  Here in the rural areas of Britain this old method was very quickly superseded by using a chicken that would be lowered down the chimney by a rope tied to its legs. It was very effective because the poor old chicken would flap about madly dislodging all the soot, it was then often eaten for Sunday dinner, but although we still eat the chicken for Sunday dinner, it is bad form these days to clean your chimney with them first. I think it is still OK to send children up a chimney but it is seriously bad form to eat them afterwards and you will not be popular.

At one point this morning our gazebo attempted to escape by flying; now gazebos are quite good at takeoff, but lack any ability to manoeuvre with any sense of dignity, and quite frankly landing it beyond them.  I can understand that a lonely gazebo having watched all the swallows fly south for the winter would be keen to join them, but they do not have a natural ability at migration and are better hibernating in a shed or the like, much like a hedgehog. Anyway the gazebo now has a sore leg and will limp from now on, dad plans to fix it like new which might mean it will turn into an albatross shaped gazebo in order to give it a fighting chance of reaching a hotter climate next year.

We also went up a steep hill this afternoon to listen to the marches choir sing madrigals and other people playing flutes and a violin. Now some of you will note, this is not really the sort of music I would normally go to, but and it’s a big but round here they do great cakes and food so I was enticed by the thought of afternoon tea with loads of local homemade cakes . . . . .  I was not disappointed they were good.

As you can tell I have returned from the top of the hill where it was rather windy at times and now plan to do traditional Sunday Evening stuff in the best tradition of British life. Which is eat more food and lie about in a dishevelled manner on a sofa pondering Life the Universe and Everything. I will forgo the usual Sunday evening television however as it is probably rubbish and instead ponder the possibilities of Cardboard sculpture and its place in British art today. As Arty folk have to be thinking arty things all the time, it is entwined in the DNA of artists.   

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The END of The Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor . . . . . . (volume three)

Today was the last day of my book, The Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor (volume three) as tomorrow is the first day of school after the holidays, or maybe today was, but I guess I will find out tomorrow. I know the holidays have ended because the Swallows are starting to mass before their long trip to Africa. There were at least a hundred here today circling and chasing insects and chattering all day on the power lines. They did do something however I did not know swallows did, about mid-day they mobbed a buzzard which in the end gave up and flew off although it did not seem too bothered. But later in the afternoon they mobbed a sparrow hawk who was really unhappy and flew off at speed  and panicking to escape from them, lets face it even a sparrow hawk cant out manoeuvre or out run a swallow so being chased by a hundred must have been a shock.

Anyway as I have said already this is the END of The Slightly Eccentric Diary of Rob Z Tobor (volume three) and so I thought I should go and hunt for the ant that brought about the end of volume one and volume two however I did not find it so I am now sat on the patio pondering the grand finale . . . .  Ooooooo guess what a small ant has wandered across the patio and it appears to have found a small red button saying DO NOT PRESS. This sounds very familiar, ants are curious creatures so I think he is going to press the button, he has . . . . . . . . . Mum just said, HERE WE GO AGAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  AH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

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A thin thread of reality between other dimensions

Yesterday I was off with friends having a meal so what with everything else going on a diary entry was out of the question due to time. Time is jolly annoying at present and I am trying to do my best to create more of it, but of course time is not an isolated component of the universe it goes hand in hand with space. And as a result things are getting a little confused as the general concept of space is getting right confused. It is a little known fact we effectively walk on a thin thread of reality and either side of us are other dimensions where the other us wanders about doing things also.  I have noticed rather annoyingly that when I do get odd glimpses of other dimensions in the reflections caused by the time space shift I am right handed. Although I appear still to be in the minority as most folk are left handed.

 I have always been reassured that the other me, the right handed me will always wave back when I see them and wave.

Anyway between attempts at shifting time (the Einstein Cube is in a safe place? or sort of lost) and waving at my other self I have had a bonfire and have grovelling about in hedges and watched swallows. The swallows are starting to get ready to fly off a sure sign of Autumn not being far away…….  Oooooo yes the swallows are not in the hedges by the way.