12.11.39

Windless, misty, sun just visible, rather chilly. Many fungi in the woods, including one which at a certain stage gets a sort of white fluffy mildew on it & smells rather like bad meat. Immense quantities of wood pigeons & large flights of starlings. Came on a field of what appeared to be weeds but think it may possibly be buckwheat, which is sometimes grown about here for the sake of the partridges. Small black three-cornered seed like a miniature beech nut. Brought home a patch of a kind of rough moss & stuck it on the rockery, hoping it will grow. Today at 3pm. Hung out a lump of fat for the tits. They had found it before 5pm.

5 eggs.

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6 Responses to 12.11.39

  1. In just a paragraph, Orwell transports us to another land and another era. Magical.

  2. Roving Thundercloud says:

    This is a crazy good year for fungi. I have never seen such a profusion or variety, and never such large ones, growing in every yard and field. It’s kind of creepy, like an alien invasion, or a preparation for something sinister.

  3. itwasntme says:

    He is alive to his world, both partaking and contributing.

  4. andrew says:

    a lump of fat for the tits, that’s always nice.

  5. He knew the war was coming, and that what we now call ‘self-sufficiency’ would be vital.
    As well as allowing him to return to the ‘Golden Country’ of his youth, and supplementing his meagre income as a writer, this was practical preparation for the horrors to come, which might have lasted indefinitely, for all Orwell knew.

  6. Dick Snufflebottom says:

    Ah, the tits will definitely appreciate the fat.

    Although if they do too much, their size may cause problems with their flight

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