Into Late Summer

Olga and I went for a walk in Kensington Gardens yesterday, where the trees are still green and verdant. But there are definitely signs that we are already slipping into late summer, and will soon be standing on the doorstep of autumn.

The thistles have gone all fluffy, with big clumps of airy seeds drifting in the wind. I saw one drifting in the Notting Hill Gate tube station last night -- probably not a great place to settle down and try to grow, but I was impressed by its ability to travel so far. Dave said his mom used to call such airborne seeds "back-to-school snowflakes."

Here's an interesting critter I found on the thistles -- a type of moth known as a six-spot burnet. (At least, I think it's a six-spot. There's also a five-spot burnet, the difference between them seeming pretty subtle -- just one spot! -- to a non-entomologist like me.)

The caterpillars that were feasting on our horseradish seem to have either slowed down or died. The plant is holding its own. Also, one of my readers asked whether any of Pat's children survived, and the answer, as far as I can tell, is no -- at least not on our balcony. We are Pat-less this year.

Dave and I went out last night to Pierre Koffmann's eponymous restaurant in Knightsbridge for an anniversary dinner. It's been three years since we had our civil union back in New Jersey, in what already seems like another lifetime! Our actual anniversary date was the 21st, but we've been dragging out our celebrations, to tell you the truth. Every time we want to do something special we say, "Well, it's for our anniversary!" Last night the restaurant brought us a special plate of petits-fours with "Happy Anniversary" written on the rim in chocolate. I suppose it's time to consider the occasion properly commemorated -- which doesn't mean we can't come up with other reasons to celebrate each and every day.