‘Plop.’

Yesterday I was sat in our garden cogitating over how many species of hoverfly there are in the UK*. I had counted five either on or zipping around the ox-eye daisies. Not knowing their species names, I made up my own. ‘Harry the Hover,’ a dainty little thing I named ‘Henrietta’, one bad ass that insisted on eye-balling me I named ‘Henry’- after the boxer Henry Cooper. ‘Hooper’ was so named after he demonstrated some superb aerobatics including several ‘loop da loops.’ The fifth was a real cool guy; he patrolled the area with a positive swagger. Smooth “look at me” glides punctuated with perfect landings, complete with a full circle turn to make sure everyone saw him. He became known as ‘Harley’ he personified (or insectified) the streetcred of a harley davidson motorbike rider.

My thought process was interupted by a sudden ‘plop’ sound from by the pond. It appeared to come from the dog’s water bowl. Now, I use the term ‘water bowl’ very loosly. Give Sherlock fresh water from the tap and he will sniff at it and then give you the kind of look that I would give if I was offered a cup of decaf coffee or tea. This old bowl, along with the pond water itself is his personal water supply. On inspection, the bowl contents included: two dead woodlice, a decomposing slug, two water snails, a few stones placed in there by grandsons, some algae and suprise suprise…a newt. A Smooth one by name- not his demeanor! The cloudy ‘water’ was tepid, but in a couple of hours it would be too hot for this trapped little fella.

I called Lily downstairs, well actually I called her Lily and asked her to come downstairs;(ff I’d called her ‘Downstairs’ she wouldn’t have answered, as it’s not her name **.) I showed her the newt which was crawling around in the luke warm slop. She plucked him out, called him ‘cute’ (she’s nineteen!) and after a close inspection and a stroke or two of reassurance, she placed him by the flag irises in the pond and he shot down into the depths (all eighteen inches of them.) The sticklebacks were nonplussed by his arrival and continued to bicker over territories in the pond.

I then had a thought that maybe the newt (I wanted to call him ‘Nobby’; which would really have cheesed him off, but I guess the irony would have been lost on him) had spied the bowl and thought ‘Aha, a private spa.’ But I fear his luxury would have been short lived and he would have ended up as dead as the (unnamed) slug; or worse still, in Sherlock’s stomach.

• * There are in fact over 280 species of hoverflies in the UK. That’s a lot of H’s!
• ** A bad joke which seemed funny at time of writing.