Sunny 22nd, Morning Rather Than Mourning.

Bit of an anti-climax so far, isn’t it? There was, I must admit, a touch of thunder last night; the odd rumble to whet the appetite but even that petered out.

This morning Mr. Foo left with his daughter, Hannah, as usual and Ah Pek wandered past in his grocery van at four miles an hour, reckless devil that he is, pipping his hooter every five or six seconds to tell the ladies that their fresh fish and veg is on the way.

The birds, in their normal morning way, were hurling abuse at each other, “Oi! You! Get off – this is my patch. Oh, yeah? Step over here and say that and I’ll peck your stupid head in, you wuss!”

Birds are like that. Mind you, the Bulbuls are more your, sort of, “Hello, Deary? Got a little something for your eggs here, I have,” type of person. Bulbuls are more inclined to the ‘get ‘em off you’re on next’ persuasion.

Couple of sugar gliders wandered past, they’ll be back later, and a pair of the resident shrews jerk across the road and into my porch with their ‘run... pause, ru-pause, run, run... pause’ motion.

Of course, the 21^st isn’t quite over yet. Not for another five hours. That’s when the last of it is squeezed out against the International Date Line by the 22^nd. Presumably Alaska and Hawaii will be holding their collective breaths until the 23^rd begins.

Time, I think, for a slice of homemade fruitcake and a mug of ‘Tetley’s Tea’. No point in having a cataclysmic event without tea.

Oh, wait. Monkeys. I have seen no monkeys this morning.

Perhaps they know something we don’t.

Better get that tea brewing quickly...