Night-time nattering

I haven't blogged for a few days now, mainly because life is rather devoted to work at the moment and it's the usual story - all work and no play, etc. But now I am wide awake in the early hours of the morning and feel like doing housework! How weird is that? During the day I feel no inclination towards it at all. It must be some deep psychological thing that always makes me put 'real' work before housework and so if I wake up early that is my cleaning time. I doubt whether the rest of the household wants to be serenaded by a vacuum cleaner right now, but if I lived alone, that's what I would be doing. Or a good old clatter among the crockery - pack the dishwasher maybe.

Yesterday started out hazy and cool, and as the day progressed it became one of those gentle late summer days by the sea, with a big shore break sending ozone-laden air in from the bay to invigorate our lungs. The air temperature was perfect for a short stroll along the beach front before popping in for a cappuccino at the local coffee shop. The milkwoods have dropped their berries now and their strong scent has passed until the next time round. I always love that smell - it's just so 'Kommetjie'! Of course, for those who live on the other side of the Kom towards Long Beach, the smell of Kommetjie is rotting kelp, something that should always be borne in mind when buying property here. Old Kom, which is the part from the old post office down to the lighthouse, has never had that smell, for which we are truly grateful.

The good part of rotting kelp is that it is the food of Talorchestia Capensis, the sea louse that is our warning signal of high tides. Their instinct never fails them, and if you see them crossing the road in a mass migration away from the sea, then you know there is bad weather on the way. I find it fascinating that they are able to know exactly how high the tide will be. Many years ago, when we had one of our famous hurricanes, they swarmed up the walls of the houses and the next day, the roads were piled high with kelp from the storm.

The sacred ibis feed on sea lice and so there are always plenty of them around, providing us with the pleasure of seeing them fly in from their roost in Hout Bay early in the morning as the sun rises, their V-formation barely breaking ranks as they swish silently overhead. The straggler still remains far behind - a lonely little bird who just never seems to wake up in time. I have been watching it for years and it always flies alone, a few hundred metres behind the flock. I wonder if they allow it to feed with them or if it has to find its own pile of kelp?

Anyway, back to bed for another hour's sleep. The cat has turned up for an early breakfast and is dozing next to my computer now. See you later!