Polka dots and flutterbys

I do not have an obsession with polka dots...

I just like to match the butterflies in my wild, rainforest garden.

I don’t have a problem with writerly procrastination, either…

Sometimes mid-tricky sentence, I just like to climb out of that window behind me (yes, window; yes, climb) and moon around after butterflies, batting my eyelashes* until one — hopefully — alights upon me.

Not one but TWO butterflies landed on my hand simultaneously today, lingering there long enough for me to manage a phone capture*, in focus and all.

Magic…

Yes, you may call me the Butterfly Whisperer. (For I was no word whisperer today.)

*No butterflies were harmed in the avoiding of writing. Neither am I so committed to my avoidance, that I will waste such idyllic writing weather (waves of rain interspersed with a kaleidoscope of butterflies cavorting in sun showers, topped off by double rainbows) by blogging at length when I should be novel-writing instead.

*Similar results with batted eyelashes not guaranteed. It’s simply the only part of my body I can move without scaring them away.

Yours, in polka dots and performative procrastination,

Averil xx