The Spring Equinox. The astronomical first day of Spring. The day which will henceforth be known in English sporting circles as the I’s of March. The day when India and Ireland gave us a sound thrashing at cricket and rugby respectively. A day that started with so much hope and expectation and ended with wringing hands and a depressing shaking of the head. The sun shone on another relatively balmy day to welcome in Spring, the fruit trees and shrubs are budding, the grass is growing and the ugly winter moss is turning brown and black after a vindictive visit from Green Thumb. All is well in the garden; but England lost!
Sunday Morning.
The day dawned bright and sunny. Yesterday’s aberrations seemed a distant memory as I set forth with wife and daughter to smite a tennis ball for the first time since lockdown and heart misfunctions brought an unwanted halt to proceedings. It was pleasantly surprising how well everything appeared to work, although there’s still time for delayed repercussions! However, my concentration on court was disturbed by some squawkingly loud gulls circling overhead, but much more interestingly above them, at about 2,000 feet, there was an impressive dogfight taking place with squadrons of black birds, rooks I think, swooping and rolling in formations of threes mainly, but with the odd pair, giving a very passable imitation of the Battle of Britain. At 2,000 feet they looked about the same size as Spitfire’s and Messersmitts at 10,000 feet and it really wasn’t hard to imagine them locked in deadly aerial combat. They really did seem to be playing the dogfight game with formation leaders and their wingmen flying in tight groups, engaging the enemy and then breaking off as more appeared. There must have been about thirty of them and the action lasted for some time, before suddenly the whole Wing formed up and disappeared off over The Downs as if they’d either run out of fuel or 12 Group HQ had redeployed them to tackle another unseen force hurtling in over the Channel to drop their deadly bombs. I was at School in Ely when they filmed The Battle of Britain and we regularly watched the dogfights taking place overhead. Today’s action looked remarkably similar. I’d love to know what they were up to.
I’m finding it quite hard to concentrate with the background noise of a football being bounced and dribbled incessantly up and down the corridor by a fifteen year old who is becoming ever more football obsessed. It leaves me in a quandary. The sound is akin to water torture, but it does mean he’s on his feet and not slobbing in a chair, glued to a screen. I fear extreme tolerance is required on my part, just as it was for my parents who nobly put up with the sound of a tennis ball being bashed against the side of the house for hour after interminable hour, day after day throughout the summer holidays. The good news for them was that I spent two thirds of the year away at boarding school; what blessed relief! I do recall my father objecting but mother came down on my side. As patience wears particularly thin I fear there is only one solution; don the lycras and take to the saddle. Mrs T is happily (?) weeding, but there’s nothing left for me to do in the garden.
The worst part is, Oliver is an Arsenal fan!
ADayInTheStrifeOf 