Blackbird singing

Blackbird singing in the dead of night, wrote Paul McCartney. It wasn’t and it doesn’t. The blackbird I listened to when I went to bed was singing while it was still light. It’s odd going to sleep then. It’s no different to shift-workers, he said. You can do what you like. But do I like? I don’t know. I don’t like being singular, well not when I’m edgy and so uncertain of myself. Other days when everything shines inside, I’m OK with it. And this morning the Perygyl and the sky and the clouds breaking up to reveal the dawn were so beautiful. I want to experience them and early is the only way I can. The blackbird made me smile. He was really going for it. And then, listening to a programme about Nature, I can’t recall it’s name, an old programme, with Cyril Fletcher, who I don’t know, and yet he’s been on twice in the last two days. Sounds Natural, that’s the title. Sound’s Natural. Well, he was being interviewed and he talked about the wildlife in his garden, the rooks, a cuckoo and they played the sound of nightingale. Perhaps that is what I heard last night, well, afternoon, not a blackbird. Do we have nightingales here? I need to find out. Or do I? I could just enjoy the song.

Kids sprawled about benches on the Prom this morning. A girl stretched out on the pavement, her legs bare, a boy and girl sat on the seat above her. What do I know? said the girl, petulantly. Well, you were the one who’s so interested in if Greg got laid or not, replied the boy.

A sheet had been tied to the Prom railing by the Bandstand. Good luck Louise and Craig, it read.

I’m in a rush. Off to work for a paper review. I’m a worry-wart today about money mostly but underneath there’s this real appreciation of the richness of it all. A rich, rich life.

I am blessed.