Tony Grist (poliphilo) wrote,
Tony Grist


My mother is having trouble with moles. Anna told us about a man who dealt with his moles by sitting out on the lawn with a shotgun in his lap, waiting for the soil to move, then blasting away.

Aaaw. Cute little, sleek little, furry things with big hands.

Anna trains race horses. Her stables are set in a kink of a valley among the south Downs- my favourite range of English hills.

They’re made of chalk and their colours are very pale and soft. They’re all that’s left of a mountain range that was once as high as the Himalaya. Whenever I get among them I recite Kipling to myself. “Blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs,” he said.

Anna is sweet. Ailz says I should have married her. Yeah, but what would we ever have talked about? She’s a country person and I’m a cockney. Can one build a lifetime’s partnership on a shared tenderness for moles?

I doubt it.
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