in a rut, deer?

friday 28th september
7.14am

thought for the day:
mnnnngggggjtfl87,567***

a couple of weeks ago, to celebrate this virtual leap into the literary bath dressed in nothing but the traditional virtual birthday suit, I ordered refills for writing implements of such obscure nature that they had, many blue moons ago, been consigned to a domicile at the back of an unopened and dusty filing cabinet drawer in a forgotten corner of the junk room, seemingly, for perpetuity. I, once again, must sing my song of praise for this miracle of internetting, aware that this rendition has been rendered(?) oh, so many times already. two of my favouritest implements are now in constant use at my desk and in the kitchen for no less distinguished tasks than illegible scribbled notations and shopping lists. ah, if only those past and present masters of the calligraphic arts could see me now.

I cursed myself earlier for not taking my camera on our morning stroll. it seems that every time something momentous occurs I have nothing with which to record the event and when I do remember, there is nothing to note but the constancy of nature though that is more than enough for this meagre correspondent. this time it was the troupe of eight red deer gracefully making their way through the brash crossing the track to disappear into the breaghaid albainh (pronounced bredálban) forest. meea and leeloo were also thrilled at this potential social event and went tearing off down the hill to make friends but the deer were blissfully ignorant of their efforts and continued purposefully on their travels. this evening they will return when the light is fading as is their habit. at the break of each day they will take the same route from their nighttime rutting grounds to their grazing area high up on meall sgallachd (mel shcályach), the hill on which we live. through the night, now the rutting season has arrived, one can often hear their screams, as they do to each other things I dread to imagine though they seem quite relaxed and untroubled come the morn. beverly hills must be a bit like that. in the absence of any true recording of this morning's observations I have taken the liberty of displaying library photos of some of the subjects referred to in this piece with the certain promise that a true rendition will be forthcoming in future accounts, happily, not including any wild transatlantic activity.


that's it fer th'noo