Frogs
Friday, September 21st, 2007At midnight, as I was shutting my kitchen door, I noticed a large frog by the door frame. It had flesh pink patches and looked sorry for itself. Unsure whether it had been squashed, I did not fancy picking it up with my hands, so used a pan and brush. I was careful and pushed it onto the pan. It was alive. I put it in the garden, on the grass then went indoors.
Call me soft but I began to think that if it had been in the house then it might be starved of water, so I filled a jug and went outside. It was were I had left it. When I poured the water over it it hopped away. Not huge leaps and not fast but it seemed to be okay. It had gone in the morning. At least I don’t have a chlorine swimming pool.
Why am I writing about frogs? Eighteen months ago when I moved into the house and after a huge rainstorm the noise from what must have been thousands of frogs woke me. I thought I had left a machine on and went to investigate until I realised. Since then several new houses have been built around me and the noise is far less. I assume the digging has driven the frogs away and it is something else that makes me sad, although I still hear a fair number, especially in my garden, after rains.
They are also a delicacy. Wander through the tracks around the village and the marsh at night, even on the main road, you will see people with miners’ hats on collecting frogs for supper.
I prefer a round of toast with blackcurrant jam myself.
