My leg post-fracture, pre-cast/titanium rod

Dear Readers, apologies to anybody who doesn’t appreciate a fracture X ray while they’re enjoying their morning coffee, but today my physiotherapist shared the photographs of my actual leg with me, and I was so excited that I thought I’d share them with you. Above is my leg post my tumble down the stairs at East Finchley Station. What a spectacular fracture that is! You can see why it’s called a spiral fracture, it looks like an Escher drawing.

The fracture once it had been ‘set’ in a cast

Once I was in the Accident and Emergency Department, I underwent the joys of traction (basically a hunky doctor grabbing hold of your leg and trying to put your tibia back together, while someone else wraps your leg in plaster-soaked bandage). Thank goodness for morphine, that’s all I can say.

And finally, here’s the leg complete with titanium rod and nail. Honestly, what a miracle this is. I can hardly believe that it’s my limb.

Anyway, back to my physio appointment. I’d been sent off from Orthopaedics with the announcement that I was now fully weight-bearing, but to rest if my leg got ‘too painful’, so I had questions. The Physio, L, watched me walk down the corridor.

“You do know that you’re limping?” she asked.

Yep, I absolutely did.

“You should use one crutch on your good side, so that you can even out the weight distribution for a bit and allow that leg to get stronger”, she said.

Hallelujah! That makes a lot of sense to me. While my leg is technically strong enough for me to use all the time, I think it needs a tiny bit more support while I’m out and about. She also said that my target 3000 steps per day seemed ‘quite a lot’ at this point.

So I have balance exercises, and strength exercises, and another appointment for in three weeks time. I am a happy bunny, but hopefully I won’t feel like Hopalong Cassidy for much longer.

Dear Readers, I have just finished a collection of essays by Jenny Diski, who died back in 2016 of inoperable lung cancer. What a loss to the world she was! All of the pieces in ‘Why Didn’t You Just Do What You Were Told’ were published in the London Review of Books: this publication is one of the last UK champions of the long-form essay, which gives a writer the chance to really engage with their subject. And what subjects they were! She writes about biographies of Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Branson and Howard Hughes. She gets stuck into a book about Jewish seafarers. She eviscerates Piers Morgan (not literally). She is never predictable, and she makes me laugh even on the darkest of subjects – the last piece in the collection, ‘A Diagnosis’, is about learning about her cancer. When she hears that she has ‘two or three years to live’, she makes a comment about ‘Breaking Bad’. which goes down like a lead balloon. At the time, she thinks that the doctor isn’t familiar with US TV shows, but later realises that probably every one who gets the diagnosis says something similar.

Of all her pieces though, I most admire ‘A Feeling For Ice’. She describes how she has always enjoyed white as a colour, the blankness of an all-white room, and decides to head off to Antarctica. But what is astonishing is the way that she interleaves her journey with an account of her childhood, with her charming conman father, and her mentally-ill, abusive mother. We grow to see how the love of nothingness might have its roots in such a traumatic childhood, but this is not a misery memoir – I was gripped by how Diski tries to piece together her memories, to work things out, to track the way that she got from where she was to where she is now. She had many gifts, but the way that she transitions between different times, places and subjects without ever losing her reader  is a real skill.

I was at an ‘audience’ with Jenny Diski once, at the LRB bookshop. From memory, it was about her book ‘Skating to Antarctica’, which tackles the subject of ‘A Feeling For Ice’ in more depth. She was a small, neat, rather nervous woman, who looked as if she couldn’t wait to go outside for a cigarette, and yet when she started to talk she was absolutely fearless. I left the talk with the feeling that she was absolutely her own woman, and that she would say what seemed true to her without any compunction. She is funny, too. In her book “What I Don’t Know About Animals”, she describes how her cat was forever in her writing room wanting to go out, or outside her writing room wanting to come in (a situation that any of us cat ladies can sympathise with, I’m sure). She decides to get a friend to install a cat flap in her office door, so that the cat will stop pestering her when she’s trying to work.

“I showed her (the cat) how it worked. I pushed her through. I pushed her back the other way. I showed her how independence worked, though down in the kitchen she knew exactly how it worked. Now that she could get on with her life as she wished, would she leave me alone to get on with mine?……

Bunty now sits in front of the cat flap and turns to stare at me on the sofa, waiting for me to open the door. When I open the door to leave the room, she races to get through it in the regular human way. Eventually, if I hold out against her baleful stare, though it might be an hour, she will laboriously go through the flap. In some way, it has worked. But the sight of a cat that comes and goes with no problem through the garden cat flap sitting, determinedly, in front of the one in my study drives me crazy. 

‘Go! Go on!’ I cry. And she looks at me. ” (What I Don’t Know About Animals, Jenny Diski, 2010). 

In short, I would recommend anything written by Jenny Diski. There are lots of her essays available on the LRB site, but honestly, any of her non-fiction work is worth a shot. I’m not familiar with her novels, though they sound satisfyingly strange to me. What a loss she was, with her acute observation, beautiful sentences and unique take on everything and everyone. If you haven’t read her before, do give it a shot. You won’t be disappointed.

Female Hornet Mimic Hoverfly (Volucella zonaria)

Dear Readers, is there anything nicer than sitting in the garden swathed in blankets like some Victorian lady in a bathchair, while your husband gets stuck into the brambles and the duckweed? Admittedly there is some frustration at not being able to help out, but only a tiny bit, as I can now hobble around and take photographs of my beloved invertebrates for your delectation.

Now the photo above shows one of two hornet-mimic hoverflies that are currently zipping around the southern UK, and I must confess that I think I’ve been getting the species wrong on occasion. The one above is Volucella zonaria,  the larger of the two species – if you look closely, you can see that there is a subtle gradation of colour on the abdomen. The first segment is chestnut-coloured, the second one is gold, and the last one is a cream colour. This is the UK’s largest hoverfly (15.5 – 19 mm).

Volucella inanis (female)

This one is the ‘other’ hornet-mimic hoverfly, Volucella inanis. You can see that the first segment is the same colour as the rest of the abdomen. I rather suspect that I’ve been misnaming some of these hoverflies in previous posts, but then there’s always something new to learn! These flies are about half a centimetre smaller than Volucella zonaria, but it’s always difficult to judge when they’re buzzing about. What is notable about both species is the way that they seem like little yellow/orange blips as they zoom about, making them the sort of insect that I always leap (or currently hobble) towards.

Anyway, what else is going on? My poor husband is cutting back what he describes as a ‘bramble’, and only later do I realise that it’s a rambling rose. Oh well, they’re in the same family and both are prickly, so it’s an easy mistake to make. I see the leaf-cutter bees have been busy too…

And I’m seeing quite a few of these little guys – one pinged in through the office window last week (which is on the first floor, so quite a jump) and then pinged back out again with a little persuasion. Such a delicate little creature!

Southern Oak Bush-Cricket (Meconema meridionalie)

This is a Southern  Oak Bush-Cricket. I have absolutely no oak in the garden, so I’m a little confused about where these insects have come from – they first appeared in the UK in 2001 but they certainly appear to be branching out. Excitingly, it is apparently a predator of the Horse-Chestnut Leaf Miner, and we could definitely do with something to eat some of them.

Horse Chestnut leaves looking the worst for wear.

The Southern Oak Bush-Cricket has certainly been increasing in numbers in the UK – look at the data by decade below. Wouldn’t it be interesting if, as species such as the Horse Chestnut Leaf Miner make themselves at home in the UK as temperatures increase, their predators follow?

And so, it was a nice couple of hours watching someone else work, and considering how overgrown the whole place has gotten. It really does need some tidying (not much, but a bit), and some pruning. I shall just have to be patient, and sort out the tree surgeon for the autumn. At least the wildlife is having a great time.

Honeybee on Hylotelephium (or Sedum as it used to be!)

Photo Kimchi.sg., CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Dear Readers, without wanting to sound like a Pollyanna-ish self-help guru, I have found that there is usually something to be learned from every novel situation. For the past week, I’ve been walking around the pavements of East Finchley, but at a snail’s pace – having found that limping seems to exacerbate my existing lower back problems, I am trying to be mindful of every step, and to try to keep my core muscles engaged. And what an experience it is!

As I walk purposefully down the High Road, I find that I’m like a rock in a stream – people pass me on either side if I just continue on a straight path, at my pace. My instinct would once have been to apologise for being so slow, but I’m past that now – there’s usually room to swerve around me, and if there isn’t people have to wait for a few seconds. There’s also a subtle internal pressure to try to speed up, but I absolutely cannot afford another fall, and to be honest I’m feeling stubborn enough at the moment to hold my ground. It takes every ounce of my concentration to put one foot in front of the other, and then to do it again, so the rest of the world can look after itself. Believe me, this is not a natural state for me to be in, but maybe I’m finally learning that self care isn’t just about ‘pampering’, it’s about staying upright and intact.

It’s made me think about what ‘not being able to keep up’ actually means. I remember speeding along the pavement, sighing at the tourists as they dawdle along, getting frustrated at people walking with their headphones on, tapping at their phones, oblivious to what’s going on around them. But I don’t think I’ve ever knowingly been impatient with someone who clearly had mobility issues. I suppose the key word there is ‘clearly’. How many people have I gotten irritated with when they were very sensibly going at a pace that was right for them? I hope that if/when I’m back to full mobility I shall be a bit more patient and compassionate for the slow walkers amongst us, the dawdlers and the distracted, the wobbly people and the ones who don’t seem to look where they’re going. After all, none of us know what’s going on for other people or what they have happening in their lives.

I have also noticed how hard it can be to walk along at someone else’s pace when it’s much slower than our own. I suppose I had lots of practice with Mum, but it feels very important to walk alongside someone with mobility issues, rather than a few paces ahead, however much of an adjustment this requires. There is nothing worse than feeling as if you’re trailing behind someone, especially at a zebra crossing, where the urge to speed up can feel almost overwhelming. I often used to slow down to walk at the same pace as someone trying to cross with a walker or a cane, and I am so grateful when someone does the same for me now. It feels like a silent statement that we’re all in this together. Plus it does wonders for my long-entrenched abandonment issues, but that would require a whole other blog post.

So, how am I doing? Progress is generally on an upwards trajectory, and I”m trying to gently push the envelope of what I can do without tearing it completely (metaphor alert). Next week is a positive flurry of physiotherapist appointments, wound checks and a bone density scan. Plus, I was at the GP yesterday to try to get some answers as to why I keep falling over. My worry is peripheral neuropathy, which my mother had – I checked it out a few years ago, and I don’t have diabetes (the number one cause of the problem) or any of the vitamin deficiencies that can also cause it. My GP did a lot of reflex tests, and there is definitely loss of feeling in both feet, so he’s sending me off for ‘some more exotic blood tests’. Hooray! But getting some answers would be a good thing, I think. Anyone else out there with peripheral neuropathy? It seems like one of those complaints with a wide variety of causes, and not that many cures. Do share!

Tree Sparrow (Passer montanus) Photo By Laitche – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2841616

Dear Readers, you would be forgiven for thinking that the only true sparrow species in the UK was the House Sparrow (Passer domesticus), that small chirpy denizen of urban spaces, and another Red Listed species. However, in lightly-wooded country and on farmland edges,  preferably where there are a few old hedges, you might see the Tree Sparrow (Passer montanus), with its chestnut head and black cheek-spot (both sexes and juvenile birds look alike). The bird is slightly smaller than the House Sparrow, and is described by the RSPB as being ‘more active’, though I’ve seen some pretty active House Sparrows!

Sadly, this inoffensive little bird has seen a breeding population decline of over 93 percent between 1970 and 2008. There have been some recent signs of improvement, but the BTO (British Trust for Ornithology) notes that for every Tree Sparrow seen today, there were twenty in 1970. There is a phenomenon whereby we overestimate population recovery because we don’t have accurate data on how many of a species there once was, and the BTO statistics help us to realise this. The range of the bird has also shrunk, with East Yorkshire now being a stronghold, while many parts of southern and western Britain no longer have Tree Sparrows. The birds sometimes do a short migration during the winter from Yorkshire to Suffolk, returning ‘oop north’ in time to breed.

While the cause of the population decline is unclear, two factors do seem to be important. One is the availability of food in the winter – Tree Sparrows often rely on the remnants of harvest in stubble fields, and this may not be available where arable land is intensively farmed.  There is some evidence that provision of winter seed helps the species, as it does with other farmland birds. A second cause could be that, in the breeding season, both House and Tree Sparrows turn to insect food to feed their fledglings and nestlings – I’ve witnessed House Sparrows hawking for flies and mosquitoes and stuffing them into the gullets of their eager youngsters. Tree Sparrows appear to rely on things such as wetland-edge habitats and drainage ditches for these invertebrates, but these, too, are often no longer available due to intensification of agriculture. In Northern Ireland, farms which actively aimed to promote the return of Tree Sparrows, providing winter food, invertebrate habitat and nest boxes (like House Sparrows, Tree Sparrows like to nest communally) has seen an increase in numbers. Let’s hope that more farms across these islands follow suit.

Tree Sparrow (Photo Richard Crossley, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Here’s a picture of the House Sparrow, just to highlight the differences.

House Sparrow (Passer domesticus) Photo Richard Crossley, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

And here are the calls of the two species. First up, here’s the Tree Sparrow (recorded in Sweden by Ulf Elman).

And here’s the House Sparrow, recorded in France by Martin Billard.

Tricky, eh? To my ear, the Tree Sparrow’s call sounds slightly more high-pitched, which is what you might expect from a smaller bird.

Interestingly, although the Tree Sparrow is a bird of mainly rural spaces in the UK, in Asia it is most commonly seen in towns and villages. In China, it was Tree Sparrows who were targeted when Chairman Mao decided that the birds were eating too much seed, and so school children, amongst others, were tasked with keeping the birds from settling so that they died of exhaustion. As we’ve seen, however, sparrows also eat lots of insect prey in the summer months, and so as the bird numbers went down, pest numbers went up. We meddle with nature at our peril, as we see so often.

A Fledgling Tree Sparrow (Photo By Aomorikuma – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4331913)

And finally, a poem. Not necessarily about a Tree Sparrow (though in a way this is a ‘tree’ sparrow, as you’ll see,  and not really appropriate for August, but I couldn’t resist. See what you think.

Christmas Sparrow
by Billy Collins

The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—

wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.

Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.

On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.

But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.

For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.

Tree Sparrow feeding its fledgling, by Huang-Quan (903-965 ) By Huang Quan (903-965) – http://www.my51a.com/product/list_23_53.html , item 131479. (This is a higher-resolution version than the one that was uploaded at zh:写生珍禽图.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=111528413

The Long Gallery, Library at Blickling Hall (Photo Martin Pettitt from Bury St Edmunds, UK, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons)

Dear Readers, clothes moths are the bane of many a household. Here in Bug Woman Towers, they have munched through suits, demolished my one and only cashmere jumper (charity shop, naturally), eaten woollen rugs and had a field day with some of the antsy-fancy woollen blankets that I make. Imagine, then, the problems in a stately home, full of tapestries and carpets and clothing and all sorts of other clothes-moth fodder. Whilst in a domestic house, a pest controller might come in and fumigate the whole place (not that this is great for humans, pets or indeed the other creatures that might share your house), this is often not an option in a heritage property, where chemicals might damage fabric.

So, I was intrigued to read today that Rentokil was planning to use a tiny parasitic wasp (Trichogramma evanescens) as a way of controlling clothes moths, not only in stately homes but in domestic homes too. What a little sweetie it is! And it comes with a fine pedigree, having been used against moths that feed on rice in the Mekong district. The wasp lays its eggs into the eggs of the moth species, and the wasp larvae hatch and gobble up the egg. Rentokil is planning on selling the wasps in time-release sachets – the wasps will hatch continuously, and will then starve to death once the moths are eradicated. Or at least this is the theory.

Trichogramma evanescens (Photo from https://entomologytoday.org/2015/09/21/trichogramma-wasps-used-as-biocontrol-agents-in-the-greater-mekong-region/)

First up though, I do wonder about the broad-ranging tastes of a moth that is happy to feed on the eggs of leaf and stem borer moths in Asia, and also on the various species of clothes moths. As far as I can see, ‘our’ wasp is not native to the UK, and in fact other related Trichogramma species are not found in western Europe. I wonder what other moth species ‘our’ wasp might take a shine to, if it ventures out of the house and into our gardens?

Secondly, my search of the internets finds that the first trial of the parasitic wasp was in Blickling Hall, a National Trust property in Norfolk which is thought to be the birthplace of Anne Boleyn. The house is home to a tapestry given by Catherine the Great in the 1760s, and so there was a lot of concern about an increase in clothes moths during lockdown – moths like to be undisturbed, quiet and dark ( a bit like me on a bad day), and so they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The trial started in 2021, alongside the use of the normal pheromone traps, which attract and catch the males, and which can be bought at any hardware shop.

In 2023, however, Blickling Hall abandoned the trial, because it was found that using the wasps plus the pheromone traps gave no better results than using the pheromone traps alone. So why, I wonder, in today’s Guardian, is there an article extolling the virtues of parasitic wasps as a method of clothes moth control? Have the pest control companies just decided to market the insects as a sustainable alternative to spraying?

I suspect that there are lots of ways in which biological controls can be a useful alternative to dousing everything in biocides, but on this one I am feeling just a touch cynical. For me, the worst infestations of moths that I ever discover are inevitably in parts of the wardrobe where I haven’t been for ages, or at the back of the deepest darkest cupboard that I own. Things that i wear and wash regularly are rarely targeted (though there is the odd exception). For me, I think clothes moths are nature’s way of telling me that I should have a clear out. But sympathy to anyone battling these little devils. If it’s any consolation, I have noticed that spiders will often munch on them, so clothes moths are clearly an invaluable part of the domestic ecology. And I would always think twice before getting in a pest control company to deal with them. I suspect that the cure is maybe worse than the infestation.

Photo Mk2010, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Dear Readers, you would think, would you not, that the inside of a microwave would be a very hostile environment for a bacteria to live in. After all, the thing works via a magnetron, which produce microwaves – these then bounce off the metal interior of the microwave and penetrate whatever’s in the oven, causing the water molecules to vibrate and to heat up. Not a happy place for anything with water in its body, which would be practically anything. Add in the fact that microwaves in laboratories are used to sterilise equipment, and you’d think that the buggies wouldn’t stand a chance.

However, like all good scientist, Manuel Porcar from the University of Valencia decided to see if this was actually true. He and his team sampled 30 microwaves: 10 from single-household domestic kitchens: 10 from mixed-use settings (such as the dreaded office microwave) and 10 from microbiology laboratories. In all, he discovered bacteria from 747 different genera in the microwaves. The household appliances had the least bacterial diversity, and the laboratories had the most – not surprising when you think of all the different kinds of experiments that the equipment in the microbiology microwaves might have represented.

In the domestic and office microwaves, the bacteria overlapped and were usually species that live on human hands or in food – they don’t seem to need special adaptations to survive in the microwave, possibly because the food particles protect them. In the laboratories, however, the bacteria that survived were more likely to be extremophiles, specially adapted for desert/irradiated conditions.

Porcar does not think that the bacteria in domestic and office microwaves are any worse than the bacteria found on hands, or in the rest of the kitchen – it just points up the need to clean the microwave as often as you clean other food preparation areas. My hunch is that the worst places are probably office microwaves, where it’s no one’s responsibility to clean the microwave and so nobody does (ditto office fridges). It makes me glad that I’ve retired!

Another scientist, Belinda Ferrari at the University of New South Wales, suggests that analysing the ‘microwave biome’ before and after cleaning might be an interesting way to see what else, apart from microwaves, bacteria can survive. Some species are resilient little devils, for sure.

You can read the whole paper here.

And here is a brief grumble. Just a brief one. I have been increasing my steps a little every day, and today I managed over 3000 for the first time. However, I am still walking with a limp, and what it seems to be doing is throwing out my back, which is more painful than it’s been for years. Harrumph. I am a little afraid that I’m going to end up with sciatica, so I might have a rest day tomorrow and just do a little gentle wandering around. Fortunately I see the physiotherapist next Tuesday, so hopefully I can get some suggestions. I do feel as if progress is being made, and I am so pleased and grateful overall.

As you were! As Dame Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well,  all manner of things shall be well”. And I am also quite partial to “This too shall pass”. Any other phrases that spring to mind when times are tough, Readers?

Statue of Dame Julian of Norwich by David Holgate outside Norwich Cathedral, Photo By User:Poliphilo – Crop of https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Statue_of_Dame_Julian.JPG,, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=117908925

Dear Readers, my long-suffering husband went off to work today (and I don’t envy him what with it probably being the hottest day of the year so far), and so I took myself carefully off to the garden to eat my breakfast. The garden is cool first thing in the morning, and is never completely blasted, unlike the front which is positively Mediterranean, and so I was enjoying my fruit and yoghurt when I was accosted by a squirrel that was running along the fence with a peanut in its mouth. It saw me and stopped dead in horror. Then it growled and flicked its tail at me, though whether in anger or confusion I have no idea. Then it shot off back into the whitebeam, where I notice there is a massive drey. The garden has been pretty quiet for a few weeks as I’ve been confined to the house for most of the time, so I think that the squirrel thinks that s/he now owns it.

As does this little chap/chappess.

How I miss my cat Willow! But this cat wandered over, doing that blinky-eye thing that cats do when they’re trying to be friendly. S/he jumped up to get a stroke on the head, then wandered past me and into the kitchen. It occurred to me that s/he’d probably done that a few times before when we weren’t looking – Willow used to be fed in the kitchen until we moved her food upstairs to get away from the ants that would swarm into her food bowl. Then the cat wandered back out and did that roll-y thing that they sometimes do.

There was a little bit of tail thrashing going on, though, which in my experience often means that a cat is confused/conflicted, so I let them go on their way. They sat on the step in the sunlight for a while, watching the collared dove on the bird feeder who kept a close eye on the feline.

Honestly, the garden is an absolute jungle. Everything has gotten away from me this year. But there we go! I will get the trees and hedges trimmed later in the year once they’ve started to go dormant, and then I think I’ll need to find someone sympathetic to help me with the heavy work. And in the meantime, I hope that the squirrels and birds and insects are enjoying it.

As it’s going to be so hot, I’m planning on taking it fairly easy today – I managed over 2000 steps yesterday, so I know I can do it, and it’s supposed to be cooler tomorrow. This is a marathon, not a sprint, so one day without progress on the step count isn’t going to cause problems. Plus, I remember that knitting and typing both trigger my Garmin watch to add a few additional steps so who knows what the count will be by the end of the day!

Dear Readers, today we decided to attempt a whole block of the County Roads here in East Finchley, from the High Road to Bedford Road, Durham Road and Huntingdon Road. First though It was a quick stop off at La Gourmandise café for a much-needed pain au chocolat. But then the moment could be put off no longer, so off we go along the High Road, passing this London Plane Tree that seems to be pretending to be a doughnut, or maybe that’s me imagining further patisserie delights.

I am always intrigued by this plaque on a house at the top of Bedford Road.The house that it is attached to looks much more recent than 1897, but this could well be the date of the original house (my house dates to 1899). It’s clear that the house has had a lot done to it, but maybe the bones of the original house are still there. At any rate, it’s an interesting vestige of colonial days.

It has clearly been a great year for hydrangeas – look at these big blousy flowers! Sadly for all their colour, the larger flowers are sterile but they do make quite the splash. Climbing hydrangeas, or ones with more of the smaller, fluffier flowers, which are fertile (Hydrangea paniculata comes to mind) are usually better for pollinators.

The gutters at the side of the road are absolutely full of little ‘weeds’ – I suppose there’s a tiny accumulation of soil, plus a bit more moisture than on the road itself. I spotted lots of species: knotgrass (Polygonum aviculare), one of the small willowherbs, and a tiny nipplewort (Lapsana communis) – I love how the size of this last ‘weed’ depends so much on the available nutrition and water. I have seen nippleworts grow to 3 feet tall in the right condition, but this one is just a couple of inches, and still flowering.

Knotweed (Polygonum aviculare)

Nipplewort and small willowherb species.

I was taking a photo of this lovely froth of Mexican fleabane when the door opened and a man looked at me with a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion. Always an awkward moment!

“I’m just photographing your lovely daisies” I said, “Is that Ok? I’m not showing your house”. People are sometimes worried that I’m casing the joint for a burglary.

“No, that’s fine”, said the man, “But it’s my wife who does the garden, she has the green fingers!”

“Well, she does a lovely job”, I say.

“I’ll tell her!” he says.

I often think that I should get Bugwoman business cards printed for just such an occasion. Maybe I’ll have a serious think about that.

Incidentally, is anyone old enough to remember a campaign run by various newspapers, in particular the Daily Mirror, in the 1960s, concerning an individual called ‘Chalkie White’? This person was actually a reporter and would visit various seaside resorts in the UK. If someone thought they’d identified him, they could walk up to him and say “You are Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds”. My Canadian husband was completely mystified by my garbled explanation of this phenomenon, so I’m hoping I didn’t just imagine it. Help, Readers!

Onwards! (Very slowly and carefully)

Mexican fleabane (Erigeron karvinskianus)

Honestly, the front gardens of East Finchley really do hold a whole host of treasures. I love these California poppies bursting forth.

California poppy (Eschscholzia californica)

Our old friend Yellow Corydalis is doing very well here…

Yellow corydalis(Corydalis lutea)

There is some lovely Agapanthus in flower, particularly in the north-facing gardens where it hasn’t gone over yet…

Agapanthus

And I always love the glass animals in this garden, peeping out from behind the species geraniums.

The Mountain Ash/Rowan berries are really quite something this year. There should be plenty for the birds.

There’s a tangle of honeysuckle…

And the bells of Pieris

And yet, what I’m most moved by is this single Welsh Poppy peering out from a most unpromising crevice. That’s what I love about ‘weeds’ – their endurance, their cheekiness, their wildlife value and their beauty.

So by now my ankle and knee and fracture site have all had quite enough, thank you very much, so I pause opposite my house to take a breath, and take a quick film of the honeybees swarming all over this lovely lavender. Again, it’s still in flower because it’s on the north side of the street, and someone is going to be getting lavender honey for sure. I was sorry not to see any other species of bee except for a lone bumblebee, but then many species have already finished their work for the year, and the queens will already be hibernating or gathering in their last stores. I did notice that the ivy is starting to flower on one of the houses, so let’s see when the ivy bees reappear! In the meantime, here’s a little film of the honeybees going about their business. And for the record, 1934 steps today so far!