Natural selection

Very tired tonight and didn’t get started on any writing until half past nine. I didn’t feel like writing any new sections, so I began to type up and revise some of the sections that I had written longhand.

I’m swinging between feeling pleased at how well I’ve written some of it along with frustration at how long it’s taking me. And then there is the disgust at other parts that just don’t sound right. All the ‘he said slowlys’, ‘he continued quicklys’ and the ridiculous phrases that sneak in: ‘a hooded figure in a cloak’ (It’s England in 1141 – it’s hardly going to be a hooded sweat top, is it?) My favourite that I found tonight were some ‘dark shadows’ (ever seen any bright ones?)

But I suppose I’ll just have to let those slide for now. I need to get on with the story above all – focus on the main job and let the rest follow on naturally.

Speaking of naturally – one of the reasons that I got to writing late was because I was fussing over a baby starling. (At least I think it’s a starling.)

I found it yesterday afternoon when I was about to mow the lawn. At first I thought my cat had got it – it was on the garden bench, half falling through the slats and looked as if it was half-eaten. Then I noticed it move and realised that it had fallen from the nest above which had disintegrated in the rain.

Josh wanted to take it in and look after it, but I told him that we couldn’t do that. All that we could do is to make it more comfortable – so I made a little newspaper nest in a flowerpot and we sat it there so it wasn’t so exposed.

I thought that that was it – it would just die. But then I noticed that the parents were still feeding it, which was good, except that it wouldn’t last two seconds in a flower pot on the floor with all the cats round here!

I managed to poke the ‘nest’ back into the hedge and the fledgeling was still alive this evening, but the flower pot had fallen lower in the hedge and dangerously close to the level of cats.

I don’t suppse it stands much of a chance – cats, rain, cold – but I’m hoping that it makes it.

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Filed under Birds, Children, Middle ages, Self sabotage, Time, Writing

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