February was foul. It was the wettest February the UK has ever seen, and the fifth wettest UK month, of any month on record, ever. Large areas of the country experienced unprecedented floods, and although Platypus Towers escaped this particular fate – living halfway up a hill helps! – it was pretty damned miserable. But as George Harrison famously reminded us, all things must pass, and around 6 March the sun finally shows up, giving it large in a dazzling, clear blue sky.
To celebrate our change in fortunes, I decide to treat Attila the Bun to an enormous carrot. I’m standing at the door to his hutch, fondling his ears while he tucks in greedily, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of my first butterfly of the year.
The symbolism isn’t lost on me. The transformation of caterpillar into butterfly is one of Nature’s most dazzling tricks. It speaks of redemption, the possibility of change, and the enormous potential that lies within the most unpromising of subjects. Nothing is so ugly that it cannot re-fashion itself into a thing of beauty, nothing is so damaged that it cannot be made whole again, nothing is so stained that metamorphosis cannot restore it to purity.
The butterfly in question is a Small Tortoiseshell. She sits atop some pure white heather blossom, sucking up the nectar, soaking up the rays. Intent upon her business, she allows me to approach and stand so close I could reach out and touch her. The predominant colour of her wings is a foxy reddish-orange, decorated with a scatter of black and yellow splodges and an edging of tiny, bright blue spots. She is so delicate, so beautiful.
My butterfly has overwintered as an adult, hunkered down somewhere sheltered, perhaps a garden shed or a farm outbuilding. For months her metabolism has barely ticked over, but today she’s awake and has a job to do. Now is her time, and with temperatures rising and the days growing longer she must find a mate, and a patch of stinging nettles on which to lay her eggs.
Her children will take to the wing in June and July, and they in turn will produce another generation in late summer. It is that generation, the grandkids of the butterfly before me, that will emulate her by seeking out a sheltered hiding place in which to hibernate through the winter.
As with pretty much every species of butterfly in the UK, Small Tortoiseshells have declined massively in recent decades. Growing up in suburban London half a century ago I used to see them in abundance, and although not rare these days I wouldn’t describe them as plentiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this early in the year so today’s sighting is definitely a bonus, as well as being a welcome indication that spring is waking from its slumber at last.
Eventually, my butterfly decides it’s time to share her ethereal beauty with another lucky soul. Sorrowfully I watch her leave, and wish her well on her journey. I will miss her. Butterflies are a symbol of hope, and god knows we need hope in these, the darkest of days.
When I started this blog one of my first posts was about Milky Bar, a cat who visits our garden most days. I’ve been quite busy since we got back from New Zealand, what with Christmas coming up fast and me not having bought a thing yet for Mrs P, so I invited Milky Bar to write this week’s post on Now I’m 64.
But just to be perfectly clear, I take absolutely no responsibility for anything he says.
Hello everyone, my name’s Milky Bar. At least, that’s what Old Man Platypus calls me, but what does he know, eh? Him an’ his missus are weirdos, that’s for sure. They gives names to all the cats what visit their garden, call ‘em after types of chocolate! That’s why I’m Milky Bar, see. An’ then there’s Malteser – he’s a good pal of mine, knows who’s the boss – as well as Minstrel, Oreo an’ Mars Bar. Not to mention Toblerone, of course.
Toblerone! I ask you, what kind of person calls a cat ‘Toblerone?’ Poor little mouser, no wonder he don’t show his face round ‘ere no more.
But what’s in a name anyway? Old Man Platypus thinks callin’ me Milky Bar gives him power over me, thinks if he shouts out my name I’ll come runnin’ like some lapdog. But I won’t. Cats don’t do that sort of thing, not this cat anyway.
Like I care about him, which I don’t, obviously. I just sit an’ watch him makin’ a fool of himself. Laughs at him I do, all this “Ooh, what a lovely cat you are, Milky Bar” an’ “Ah, what a little cutie you are, Milky Bar.” Yuk!
I think he secretly wants me to move in with him at Platypus Towers, like some mistress or his bit on the side. No way, José. I mean, if he’s serious about this relationship he needs to work at it, buy me stuff an’ all. You know, he’s never once opened a tin of tuna for me, or bought me a packet of Dreamies! The man’s a total waste of space, that’s what I say.
One time he accidentally drops some pellets what he feeds to the goldfish in his pond, then watches to see if I’ll gobble ‘em up. Maybe he reckons I won’t even notice, that I’ll think them pellets was meant for me. Me? Fooled by some lousy fishfood? I don’t think so!
I’m tellin’ you, Old Man Platypus ain’t got a clue. If I was writin’ his end-of-term report I’d put “Must try harder” an’ give him a D-minus. But only if I was feelin’ generous, like.
What makes it worse is he can be a good bloke when he wants to. There’s this rabbit what lives in an ‘utch at the bottom of the garden. Ugly thing it is, ears like a donkey. But Old Man Platypus thinks it’s wonderful, calls it Attila the Bun. Attila the Bun, get it? No, neither do I.
Anyway, Old Man Platypus is always out in the garden talkin’ to that rabbit, tellin’ him what a fine fellow he is. Like the rabbit can understand him, I mean rabbits ain’t clever like cats, are they?
An’ every day he gives this Attila a massive pack of fresh food. I tell you, that rabbit eats like a king … if kings eat carrots an’ kale an’ cabbage an’ cauliflower an’ celery an’ spinach an’ sprouts an’ watercress an’ lettuce an’ beetroot an’ broccoli an’ rocket an’ apples an’ pea shoots an’ pears. Not to mention mixed leaf salad, whatever that is.
So that’s why I don’t come on too friendly with Old Man Platypus, ‘cos he ain’t serious about me. I mean, if he was serious like, he’d cut back on stuff for that wretched rabbit an’ give me a nice big bowl of tuna. Or salmon, of course. At a push I’d even put up with cod, but no, even that’s too much trouble for Mr Parsimonious Ratbag Platypus. Fishfood, that’s the extent of his generosity where yours truly’s concerned. Huh!
Madame Platypus ain’t much better. Always creepin’ up on me and pointin’ her camera in my face she is, tellin’ me not to move an’ to look straight into the lens an’ to tilt my head on one side so I look extra cute, an’ never, ever to blink.
Sometimes her camera lens is clickin’ away like a flamin’ flamenco dancer playing the castanets. How’s a cat supposed to sleep with all that goin’ on? I tell you, if I had any credit left on my cell phone I’d ring up the cops an’ get her arrested for disturbin’ the peace.
OK, I admit it, she said I could have some of her photos for this blog. Good job too, means you can see what a fine lookin’ feline I am, most ‘andsome mouser in the neighbourhood. So Madame Platypus has her uses, only don’t tell her I said so. I mean, we wouldn’t want gettin’ above herself, would we?
An’ to be fair – me, I’m always fair, of course I am – Old Man Platypus has his uses too. He likes watchin’ them Mice-With-Wings, puts out food for ‘em on a special table, even has a water bath for ‘em.
Typical, ain’t it, food’n’drink for his little feathered friends, and nothin’ for yours truly. But I forgive him ‘cos I loves drinkin’ from that water bath, I do. On a good day you can taste ‘em in the water, them Mice-With-Wings!
Old Man Platypus don’t do much gardenin’, says he’s got a bad back, but really it’s just ‘cos he’s an idle bugger. So, ‘cos he don’t cut back the bushes there’s places for me to hide an’ watch the Mice-With-Wings. Luck me, eh?
I caught one once I did, big as a rat it was, more like a Rat-With-Wings. I tell you, there was feathers everywhere. Tasted OK too, though ‘cos I’m a cosmopolitan kinda cat I prefers tuna. But that day I felt real great, goin’ back to my roots, showin’ the world just how it’s done. Milky Bar, King of the Urban Jungle, that’s me.
Anyway, I’m gonna stop now. This bloggin’ business is hard work, so I needs a snooze. An’ some tuna. Are you gettin’ this Old Man Platypus, do I have to spell it out, I needs tuna. That’s right, T-U-N-A … TUNA!
An’ I needs it now, so be a good chap an’ nip down to the shop an’ buy me some. About a dozen cans should do nicely. Until next week, that is.
Postscript: If you’ve enjoyed The World Accordin’ to Milky Bar, please click on “comment” and tell Old Man Platypus. If enough people tell him they like what I’ve written maybe he’ll let me have another go! With love from your new Best Friend Forever, the cat what always gets the cream (but never any tuna), the one and only Milky Bar. 😺
And now, a message from Old Man Platypus: Milky Bar isn’t the first cat to claim ownership of our garden, although he is the rudest. Old Man Platypus indeed! Click on the link below to find out about Sid, a much politer cat who used to visit.
At last, after a miserable soggy June, the sun appears, and to mark the occasion a Painted Lady pays us a visit. No, a Painted Lady isn’t a young woman of negotiable virtue. Ours is a respectable town, and that sort of thing simply doesn’t happen here. Honest.
Rather, a Painted Lady is a butterfly, one of the few migratory butterflies seen in the UK. They spend winter in North Africa, and successive generations then work their way north every spring and summer. Significant numbers of Painted Ladies only make it to the UK in exceptional years, when the wind’s in the right direction, so we feel honoured that one has dropped by.
However, she needs to take care, ‘cos Milky Bar’s on the prowl. Milky Bar eats insects for breakfast, and for lunch, dinner and supper too, if he gets the chance. He’s the apex predator in our suburban Serengeti, and everything else with a pulse needs to take care.
Have I told you about Milky Bar? Milky Bar, or MB for short, is a cat who’s been visiting for 18 months or more. He claims ownership of our garden, but graciously allows us to use it so long as we leave him in peace to pursue his hobbies. MB’s hobbies include birdwatching, fishing and eating dragonflies. I have no doubt that he is personally responsible for a shortage of dragonflies in our part of the county.
Our garden has lots to amuse the discerning cat. Milky Bar enjoys scaling the bird table for a better view of his surroundings, and sitting for hours next to the pond, mesmerised by the fish rendered unattainable by the netting I have installed for just that purpose.
But at the end of the day MB is a just a typical moggy, so his favourite pastime is snoozing. Under the weigela, under the bay tree, under the big red rhododendron … Milky Bar’s not fussy, pretty much anywhere shaded will do to while away the afternoon.
And although he may appear sound asleep the merest flicker of his eyelid, the minutest movement of an ear or that tiny twitch at the tip of his tail are all clues to his higher purpose. At heart MB is a hunter, and insects of any shape, size or hue are his preferred quarry. Painted Ladies beware.
It was our 35th wedding anniversary last week. In so many ways it seems only yesterday that we did the deed, yet on the other hand it feels like another age altogether. Notwithstanding Margaret Thatcher – who was never my favourite person – back then it did appear that the world was getting better, that there were grounds for optimism, that things were generally moving in the right direction.
As Ian Dury told anyone who would listen, back in the day we had reasons to be cheerful.
It’s impossible to believe that now, I think. Trump, Brexit, rampant populism, climate change, plastic pollution, neo-nicotinoids, xenophobia, terrorism, palm oil, habitat destruction, mass extinctions, obesity epidemics, modern slavery, housing shortages, sexual abuse, mental health crises, Boris Johnson … ain’t it just great to be alive in 2019?
Oh dear, I really must stop reading the Guardian.
Mrs P’s mum and dad were away last week, so we found ourselves on budgie duty. Toby likes company but gets miserable when the house is quiet. To counter this we went round to their place every morning to switch on the radio, so he could listen to Classic FM for a few hours. Then in the evening we’d go back to feed and water him, and to bill-and-coo for a while.
Toby’s a lovely, lively, cheerful soul, hopping madly from perch to perch, joyfully attacking his cuttlefish, celebrating life with his incessant bird-brained chatter. He’s carefree and exuberant, and lives for the moment.