Slippery Slope. As I was saying, recently, for the Nth time (Bumba help me but I do repeat myself!…), even the wisest and steadiest of creatures can get a fit of the vapours now and again, when not a proper bout of the ubermegrims, seeing how miraculously crappy things are; and ostensibly getting crappier by the minute. It’s like the chap in Ecclesiastes never tires of reminding us:
For in much wisdom is much grief, And he who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.
Mercifully, there always seems to be some good Samaritan or other at hand to check on the despondent soul and administer the traditional “There, there…” and perhaps even a nice hot cup of hot chocolate. Menos da una piedra…

Fierce Beastie. Well, you know what it’s like. You leave the running of things in the hands of imbecile children with delusions of grandeur, far, far too much money and a set of covetous, lily-livered, grovelling, cringing, enslaved minions to back them up and sanction their every move, and you end up with situations so beyond the absurd as to need a brand new word to describe it. The mostriciattoli, poor mites, are on the farthermost side of flabbergasted. I do feel for them, I do.

Landscape2 B&W. It’s summer in the country. It must be just after lunch because the cicadas are going berserk, perhaps trying to scare the heat away. The world smells of dry pine needles and dust and roses. The mushrooms are only days away, a latent treasure-trove of primeval passions and sensual raptures.
This be a eulogy to the almost lost art of mushroom hunting. They who know or have know the delights of such an activity will instantly recognize what I’m talking about.

Island. From the bonny island in the sun where the wild alien tomatoes* roam and the trees blossom all year ‘round, the Family and your truly are wishing you a totally spiffing and riotous AntiValentine day/week/month/whatever.
Us chickens are too effing pooped and despondent to be bothered with the organizing and running of public communal shindigs and such otherwise delicious frivolities. We are going to spend said anti-week with the indigenous veggies and their mates. The Wee Worms will enact a few wormy folk dances and the Shoggies will mix the Martinis. That’ll be the extent of our knees-upping this year. Maybe next time we’ll be back in form, Bumba willing.
PS. Having said that, if you’re cunning enough to find your way to the island on your own steam, and show up unannounced but with a bottle of some nice Cabernet Sauvignon and a bagful of home-made samosas, you’ll be most welcome.
*These be not your average timorous tomatoes. These here be fierce fruits that cannot be coaxed or bullied into your salad. Vegetarians beware.

Morriña. Del gallego morrinha: S. f. coloq.: Tristeza o melancolía, especialmente la nostalgia de la tierra natal. Sin.: Nostalgia, añoranza, tristeza, pena, melancolía, musepo, melarchía.
Eng. Longing, nostalgia, homesickness.
Since this most wonderful of words hails from a Galicia badly remembered but never forgotten, I’ve used the first line of the Galician national lament* for a quote.
The source of my personal yearning is not for a bygone, nebulously distant native land that possibly never was but for an equally imaginary Trusk-free brave new world. Ah, for that magic button… Or for the prophecy to come to pass:
Anda jaleo, jaleo,
ya se acabo el alboroto
y ahora empieza el tiroteo.
Come on, kick up a stink, kick up a stink.
The racket is over
And now the shooting begins.
*Os Pinos. Galician national anthem/wail. Here’s a link to it, in case some of you wish to enhance (but on no account “elevate”!; never “elevate”!) your cultural horizons:
https://lyricstranslate.com/en/os-pinos-anthem-galicia-anthem-galicia-pines.html
And with music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeEfiuM6LM8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrPfMFJvpC0