Today is all about Ozymandias (or so he tells me). He doesn’t like to play second fiddle, trombone or triangle.
Antics so far this week include: providing very, very early alarm calls by running up the walls of the bedroom and then flinging himself into the curtains to catch springy worm/white mouse/ball/hairgrip/imaginary monsters, developing a new habit of drinking water from any glass that I leave unattended for more than 20 seconds and optionally knocking them over afterwards to watch the water trickle like a stream, bringing in the lovely gift of a baby wood pigeon and developing an interest in watching Olympic BMX biking. It is a busy life.
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away”.
Percy Bysshe Shelley