April 2025

I WANDERED into the kitchen the other day to see what Cate was cooking for dinner, and found her looking out through the French windows at where our daffodils were bobbing their little heads in the sun.

“Ah, spring is sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the birdies is. They say the birdies on the wing, but that’s absurd. I always thought the wing was on the bird,” she said, then went back to conjuring up delicious pesto and basil chicken.

Quite bonkers, that gal, but she was right, as usual: the days are getting longer, there’s a hint of heat in the air, and down at the airfield, chaps we’d long thought deceased are appearing draped in cobwebs, yawning, checking out their flugelling machines for flugelability and rising at length into the wide blue yonder.

Which brings me, naturally, to another splendid photo comp month, with the light show ranging from rainbows over the potteries to a flexwing famed by a Brocken Spectre.

Splendid, all; and as always, the chosen few will be in your next MF. And dinner was fabulous, thanks for asking. Groovy chickens, as Cate would say.