Not my heroes

I was born too soon for these guys to be my heroes. They're out on the margins, interesting but not burrowed into my life like the "others" who as it turns out are mostly people from that god-awful decade known as the sixties. This forgotten and woe begotten place /decade remains as the major and persistent source of various ear worms and technicolor flashbacks of lucid and often awful memory. It must be an age thing.

So help me but I can't help but buy food, despite the fact we don't really need more...somehow it all gets eaten. Some law of physics is bending to the point of imminent fracture here. So today I went looking for a chicken pie but could only find a steak pie and a tray of brownie like chocolate sludge, milk and a bag of potatoes. I will, without the assistance of the web, a net, an app or any prompting turn these random things into some sort of presentable meal. Later.

The good news is that the bad weather has attracted a colourful pair of magpies into the garden. Like crazy crows on drag these green and purple monsters clamber all over the bird feeders as the tits and sparrows look on, puzzled and bemused from a safe distance. Treat of the day for our feathered bandits are those pink suet bullets that Tesco sell. Birds of all sizes love them, perhaps they are some kind of socially acceptable drug in the avian community. They go in a matter of moments, gobbled up in a frenzy as the seeds and breadcrumbs are ignored.