I’ve always
loved dinosaurs.
As a child,
with my nose in Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedia, I was thrilled by all that stuff.
My
imagination soared with Pterodactyls, in a primeval swamp, flying over
sulphuric volcanoes. As a T Rex I raged
and tore into pedantic paternal Diplodocuses telling me what to do and how to
behave.
Yesterday,
my middle-aged self was transported to that wonderful hotbed of Jurassic history,
Lyme Regis.
Lovely hotel, great views over the seas,
exquisite food. Happy anniversary darling! Thirty four years, God! Time flies!
Carpe diem and all that.
The museum told
me what I already knew- the story of Mary Anning who found the first Ichthyosaurus
dinosaur head, washed up on Lyme Regis beach, 200 million years after its
demise. Eureka!
Poor cow. As
a woman she was never allowed to join The Geological Society of London, yet her discoveries
were some of the most significant geological finds of all time. How unfair is
that?
Trudging
along the seashore I saw not shells but something else. Hang on, what’s this? A
rounded grey lump with six protruerbences bursting out of it! Oh my God,
fossilised dinosaur eggs! My female gatherer instinct kicked in. Husband, Homo
sapiens genus, was not so keen on the hunt.
In the
comforts of the superior en-suite, I couldn’t sleep. Neither could he.
“Shall I
sell them? Could be a small fortune? Donate them to the British Museum, see my
name in lights as “benevolent benefactor?”
“Give it a
rest, for God’s sake...”
Next morning
I strode confidently into in the Lyme Regis Fossil shop with my eggs nestling
on a Tesco plastic bag.
“Whassatt?”asked
a little gang of inquisitive fellow fossillers, aged about ten.
“Dinosaur eggs,
I think...”
“Wow!”
The fossil
expert peered at my offering, then explained that what I had found was not
eggs, ahem, but mud bubbles formed by Jurassic hot springs.”But they’re still
fossils,” he added looking at my crestfallen face.
“Were they Hadrosaurus
eggs then?” asked the kids .
“No, just
mud” I muttered morosely and slunk out.
Back home I
have placed my precious mud on display in my conservatory as a symbol of...
Misplaced youthful optimism? Hope springs eternal? What do you think?
Outside a
blue sky frames the frothy pink blossom of my cherry tree, bathing in warm
spring sunshine.
I raise a
glass of cool white wine.
Cheers!
Here’s mud in your eye!
