There are little dark shadows over our dove cote. I see them when I am having my early morning coffee in the sunroom. I can see furtive clothlike movements from the corner of my eye, no sooner have I noticed them than they are gone. Gradually I work out what is happening. A pair of stock doves have taken up residence in our dove cote down our garden path.

Stock doves are smaller than the big woodpigeon I see strutting its stuff on the lawn and taking over from the smaller birds. Stock doves are different, they are more discrete and are going about the business of building their nest with great secrecy. Their numbers are diminishing in the UK, and they are on the RSPB amber list. I watch as a small twig from the woodland is picked up and taken off to the pigeonhole to make a nest in one quick movement.

They are a bit like the road worker who came the other day to our potholed road, except there was a bit more noise. I had expected quite a lengthy wait for the road to be resurfaced in accordance with the letter we had explaining that it was much better to resurface the whole road rather than fill in potholes.

Two big lorries arrived at the end of our drive and a ‘Road Closed’ notice was put up.

“Have you come to re-surface our road?” I asked in anticipation. “I had a letter about it.”

“No, I don’t know about that I am filling in potholes,” he replied.

We went into town, but when we came back the lorries had gone and the Road Closed notice was on the verge with the writing turned away from us.

Some of the potholes have been neatly filled but the promised ‘new asphalt layer’ has not materialised. Perhaps I have misunderstood or maybe the new surface will appear later this year.

There was a misunderstanding when we went into a café for lunch recently. I ordered a flat-bread with ham and cheese but no pickle. There was a queue and we must not have ordered clearly because my sandwich had pickle in. Of course, they took it away immediately with an apology and came back with a replacement. But this time it had no ham and the pickle was still there. I asked again, and again they patiently took it away and finally brought the sandwich with no pickle.

They kindly assured me that staff had eaten what I could not. But I when I got home, I remembered with guilt that I had taken a bite out of one before I sent it back.

(Taken from my column in the Shropshire Star)

The road sign saying 'Road Closed is on the verge with the writing hidden


Popular posts from this blog

The dangers of living in the country

Home from hospital (again)

Summer Trials