Large Skipper

Three more Large Red Damselflies emerged from our patio pond this morning, and three from the wildlife pond. I expected to be posting one of these today (in hope that the rest of the world wasn't sick of the sight of them by now), but at lunch time, arriving back from a lengthy and annoying but ultimately successful shoe shopping trip, I was standing in the front garden chatting to R when this Large Skipper skipped in and landed on the montbretia. Better yet, he was more tolerant of photographic attention than Large Skippers tend to be, and allowed me to get quite close with the macro.

If you don't know this species, it's defined by a faint chequerboard pattern on both sides of its forewings, and by its hooked antennae. Neither of these characteristics are shared by our other orange species, the Small Skipper and Essex Skipper, which is useful because they all fly at around the same time, and the Large Skipper isn't actually all that much bigger than the other two. The heavy black mark across the forewing is called a sex brand, and identifies this as a male; it contains specialised cells that release a pheromone to attract females. Large Skippers produce one generation per year, with adults on the wing between June and August. The larvae, which feed on a range of flowering grasses, overwinter in a hibernaculum they create from grass stalks and spun silk, then resume feeding in the spring until they're large enough to pupate.

The Boy Wonder and his mother phoned for a chat this morning, having been playing a game with a crocheted bee (a favoured toy ever since the Boy was a baby), in which B and bee chased Mummy around the house. "I'm going to eat you," the Boy had told her, "because you are nectar." L was extremely impressed by his scientific knowledge - as was I, actually, because it's several months since I first told him about nectar, and it's presumably not learning that he has to call on every day. (I was also relieved to know that he hasn't inherited his mother's lifelong determination not to listen to anything I say, but managed to let this thought pass unspoken.)

At this juncture R arrived. "Can you say, "Happy Fathers' Day, Granddad"?" whispered L. The Boy turned to the phone and whispered, "Happy Fathers' Day, Granddad," at a volume that was only marginally above the lower threshold of canine hearing. R, needless to say, melted all over my study carpet.

B then announced that he wanted to come and see us - "I want to come to our house," he said. "No. Your house." We said that we would love that, and that he would be visiting us "soon". At this point he disappeared, came back a few seconds later with the little backpack he takes to day nursery, and said that he was ready to go. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but I said "One day when you're bigger, you'll be able to drive a car, and come and see us whenever you like." "And then," said the Boy, "you can ride in my seat."