Earlier this summer I noticed that parts of my jasmine hedge were getting awfully thin, with spots that used to reach the ground now several inches above it, so I decided to break my minimal watering resolution and give part of it some water more often. That section is still rewarding me with a few small flowers, though I have to get my nose right up next to them to catch any fragrance. In May I could smell it even in the house when th windows were open, but the only scent on the night air now is dry grass and pine resin. Unless of course a skunk comes along, or a neighbor decides to do a load of laundry with smelly detergent, and I can do without those things.
There have been no midweek English murders on television for quite some time now. I must wait for Sunday to see the posh slaughter. In the meantime I've been making do with the occasional movie, but somehow it just doesn't seem right for Sherlock Holmes to be played by an American actor (Robert Downey Jr. in this case) with a fake accent. But at least Jude Law played Dr. Watson, and most of the rest of the cast were British— sort of. The main villain was played by a London-born Austrian-Italian, but he did get the accent right. Our cosmopolitan age.
Tonight looks to be a pretty thin night for television, so I'll probably spend more time outside looking at the stars. I'm glad that it is mild enough that the house will probably cool off sufficiently with only the open windows, and I won't need to use the noisy electric fan. I'm heartily sick of its racket. It's almost as annoying as those little crickets.