Who wouldn't idolise a sister who spends her weekends measuring the forearms of Soprano Pipistrelles?
My springtime resounds with the purr of traffic dampened by lukewarm London drizzle and the ectoplasmic swirl of a pavement martini; with the lazy, haunting robotica of some old-school Air; with the shriek of rubbish trucks as the sun wakes me early through broken blinds; with the huffs and haws and high-pitched howls of the Shoreditch poserati returning from disco all-nighters through the rain; with the sticky tap tap tap of an old EeePC which has had coffee spilt on it one too many times.
Hers resounds with the hidden poetry of woods: Yellow Archangel and Sweet Woodruff; Dog Violet and Columbine; Bluebell and Bugle and Greater Stitchwort; Shakespearean fools and faeries flourishing in the dirt. But above all her springtime sings with bat. Their inaudible screams silently echolocate through the English air while we saunter, smiling at the birds and the butterflies, biosonically blind to the caramel-hued, mask-faced, hand-winged chiroptera vanishing at the corners of our eyes like prehistoric memories.
I stroked a Soprano Pip cradled in her gloved palm; watched two defiant Leislers weighed in a bag; saw the death sentence dangle of a Noctule's third finger bone marring the perfect span of his membranous wings. The privilege was shocking; our daily oblivion, more so. There are Pips all over London, and the squeak of brakes outside my office keeps making me turn my head.
I'm not getting much done.