Fly away home… You can have too much of a good thing
‘Look, a ladybird!’ This was how it started. My family were staying the night in a bed and breakfast near friends in rural England – we had driven through a landscape the colour of butter to park under a hillside upon which the shadows of clouds passed like curtains closing. I was medicated, pleasantly, can you tell, in a hangover from the most painful migraine of my life, and the clouds reminded me of the visual aura that flickers across your vision just before the headache begins. We put our bag on a chair, and there, inside the window frame, was a ladybird. And then, look, there was another one. The children gathered, by the window ready to be enchanted.
A group of ladybirds is called a “loveliness”, which, to me, sounds suspicious. Sounds problematic even. As if they have named themselves. A “conspiracy” of lemurs, that’s a good one, implies darkness, intelligence. A “bloat” of hippos, relatable. A “destruction” of wild cats, you’ve got a whole story there, beginning, middle, end. But a “loveliness”, please. Perhaps it’s my own must-work-on-it tendency towards tall poppy syndrome, perhaps I am inordinately disgusted by the ladybirds’ cloying self-satisfaction – I find the term embarrassing. However, there it was, a loveliness, crawling all over the window frame.
