Counting Crows

...Or rather magpies.

A superstitious auld sod, I am. I blame the rural-born Irish strain for this reliance on an Old Moore's Almanac-stylee belief in tenuous portents.

A family of magpies have set-up home in the tree just outside this rear window. It means that I spy at least one every time I look garden-ward or indeed, when out in the yard.

But this single bird is by no means a sign of 'sorrow'. No siree. In the knowledge that maggies mate for life, there's always the other nearby -- so much 'joy' must be ours.

And in the coming months there'll be a nest full of nippers to boot..

We have little GFHS safely in belly, so we're covered on the foursome (i.e., we've got the 'boy' bit), and are really looking for a 'gold' six, or at the very least, a 'silver' five.

All we need now is to find tomorrow's lotto numbers in the froth of this evening's first pint in the Shakey or in the runic scatterings of discarded fried chicken bones on Allen Road.