Herewith below please find (or not, they’re free anyway) a whole herd of wild balls; organised by their own inherent sense of disorder into serried ranks and files—
“Mr Argus, Sir?”
“Yes, Little Virginia, pest?”
“What’s ‘serried’, Sir?”
“I dunno, sweet cherub—but don’t fret. My guess is that very few in Blogland know either.”
Stacked entirely by themselves and of their own volition—who dare say there’s no true order in Nature, huh?
Now, where were we?
Oh, yes … the fancy imaginative use of imagination?
Then imagine, if you will, that you are parked up at the park with your heart’s desire and peering over her shoulder at a tree …
… and this is what you see. So feel at liberty to let your mind wander, and don’t tell me what those gargirlian shapes suggest (I have problems enough already).
In Invercargill recently
we had the annual Santa Parade. Dozens of Santas (Santae?) but only one with the official Santa sleigh & reindeers.
So whilst awaiting the arrival of the gathering herds I photographed some of said gathering herds and being a bit camera-shy myself—
—made sure that none of the unwary would wander sociably over and stuff the camera up the old dog’s nose. (En passant off-the-cush candids, boom boom!)
AND TO CLOSE
with a long flexi-nose …
A B innocently going about the daily round. You know how it is, suck up a little here, drop a pollen or two there; and hope not to get ambushed by blasted spicers … oops, spiders. (Dum keyboard—it’s these big clumsy paws, dammit.)
Okay. I lied. Sue me—
—I just had to add this final last last final shot—there I was, trotting lightly along Dee Street when I saw an old-fashioned (but much better design) pram (Americans may read ‘baby carriage’ here) running down the street all by itself. Although I found such activity interesting (yea, even fascinating!) it occurred to me that if I remained a spectator rather than participant that pilotless pramcraft might slip the surly bonds of footpath and dance itself to destruction amidst the no-holds-barred traffic that is Invercargill’s.
Of modest hero stuff I ambled over and intercepted said beast, returning it to its owner; who obliviously inside her shop on her knees with a mouthful of pegs (don’t ask) nodded me a grateful smile … and left me to figure out how the hell the brakes should be applied.
In the end (they seemed frozen)(rust?) I left it slightly nose in and bimbled off.
Good deeds for the week—one …