||[Jan. 26th, 2005|09:11 am]
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.