I had an amazing view of a wren last night, after I'd posted my blog entry. I was sitting on a steamer chair on the veranda. Indeed I'd gone to sleep over the history of East Prussia, and when I woke up a small bird with a cocked tail was perched in the honeysuckle, no more than a metre from Our Ginger who was likewise having a snooze, chattering away in a series of loud, almost metallic cheeps and flicking its little tail up. I peered at it fascinated for several minutes, before working out that I was still wearing my reading glasses and that I'd see more if I switched to my distance pair. Our Ginger refused to acknowledge that he was being dissed at close quarters by a small, provocative bird, and I sat tight until the bird flitted off to the stooled foxglove tree shoots, where it repeated the chattering and tail flicking routine before producing one short burst of loud and tuneful song. I checked the call in the bird guides, and with the Systems Administrator, who confirmed that I had seen a wren. The call was right, and nothing else has a tail like that. It was actually slightly larger than I expected a wren to be, but it was in confident mood and may have been all puffed up. They have a reputation for being shy birds, and I was amazed to get such a long, close view of one. I've seen a bird before in the Paulownia, flicking its tail like that, but didn't know then what it was. After the wren's display a blackcap sang. They are wonderful singers, even louder and more melodious than wrens.
Today was unbelievably humid, so that every breath felt like trying to breath soup. The cheerful man who tends the crushing machine at the dump longed for rain to clear the air, but joked that since it was the Olympics it would probably snow. We are going to watch the opening ceremony, though I'll almost certainly duck out before the end, given that I have to go to work in the morning. Beyond that I'm still not enthused. Neither Mitt Romney's sneers nor Boris Johnson's floppy haired exhortations have yet convinced me that I'm interested in sport. I listened out for the universal peal of bells at twelve minutes past eight this morning, but if any of our local churches were taking part then the wind must have been in the wrong direction to bring the sound to us. We did get a little hint of burnt smell last night from one of the local stubble fires. It seems to have been a bad week for those.
I have made my first batch of ice cream, using a basic cream and milk recipe out of the instruction booklet that came with the machine. The Definitive Guide to Ice Creams, Sorbets and Gelati arrived this morning, which was handy since otherwise I wouldn't have known that heavy cream translates as whipping cream and not double. Apparently that is what the Americans call it. I stashed most of the ice cream in a plastic box in the freezer pending supper, but the bit I ate out of the mixing bowl was delicious, though maybe a tiny bit sweet. I went for the inside bowl approach, for ease of cleaning, and took Caroline and Robin Weir's advice to wipe the machine after use with baby's bottle disinfectant, even though it has not been in direct contact with the ingredients, to prevent any sour smell developing, so now you know that if you spot someone in a supermarket buying full fat milk, whipping cream, Milton and cheap gin, homemade ice cream may be the connecting factor. The two tubes of toothpaste were not because I was so worried about the effect the ice cream would have on my teeth, but because I was running out, and it was on BOGOF.
Even the Taliban like ice cream, according to a story in the Guardian. It is a cheerful thought, Afghan refrigerated lorries full of lollies being given safe passage through even the most dangerous areas.
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