Moping Owl: Playtime

Hope springs eternal, so the poet sings, or dum spiro spero, as that wise and prudent old bird, King Charles I, would put it, and he should know. But then again, true as truth may be, I have to say there are times, and these not the least of them, when it would seem to have shrunk to the merest trickle. Perhaps by the time you read this I may well have been proved mistaken – and oh how I do hope so – but please don’t go round to the bookie’s just yet, no matter how short the odds.

But at least Spring has sprung, just about, and the tendre croppes popped up here and there, and the yonge sonne come out now and again: just the time of year indeed, as that other old bird once sang, whan longen folk to goon doon to the pub again for a swift half or two, and then perhaps to take in a gallery and catch up on a bit of Art at last – get one’s eye in