Things you don't expect to find in...your BRA!

There have been a backlog of blog entries queuing up in my bloggy brain as one thing or another jumped to the front and got a posting, and so, as relative calm surrounds me (life has taught me to enjoy this calm as chaos quickly follows!) I'm going to try to play catch up.

Let me set the scene so you can fully appreciate the moment:

This was a couple of months ago, so the weather was, uhm, A LOT warmer (says me sitting here bundled up, drinking hot peppermint tea and sitting intimately close to a heavenly hot oil heater). I was heading outside to do something in the yard and decided that my manual labour would be better served if I could get some sun on my body. And no, I'm not that kind of sun whore people, I wear SPF30 & hats, but it just feeeeeels good. As I was saying, I'm upstairs rooting around in the disarray of boxes littering our bedroom, no order, thanks to the @#$%^!& packers of April yore, searching for my jog bra. A jog bra is appropriate attire in the country for yard work--skimpy enough to allow sun to meet my skin, yet supportive and enough coverage should farmer Jean-Pierre show up for yet another random task in his field.

Finally, I spot my old Energizer bag (see Papa M, like the bunny, just keeps going & going & going :o) ) askew under the skylight, with some workout clothes peeking out half an opening. Aha. Shuffle over. Stick hand in and grope about (appropriate as I'm searching for my bra, no? haaaaaa.) in irritation as my body temperature mounts--I'm in the 'grenier' (attic) on a hot day, and those of you who know me, know I don't do well hot. Spot red, Bingo. Reach in, pull out the bra.....and "aiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeee"..."ayyyyaayyyyeeeeeeeeyeeyee" (please say this in an operatic, high pitched tone for true effect)....is all that can be heard for acres around.

T downstairs: "Are you OK?". Clump, clump, clump. (T running to the bottom of the stairs as I don't emit operatic screams often, usually only because he has snuck up and scared me.)
Me upstairs: ha ha ha hee hee hee (nervous, hysteric laughter)....clump, clump, clump. (Me carefully descending our precipitously angled stairs.)

I push T outside and lay forth on the white bench exactly what, shall we say surprised me- In. My. Bra.

Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you, that is a bat. A cute, furry, sweet little bat that died in my bra. T says "now, I know that's where I want to die someday (me giving him the eye), but that poor little guy...".

So, apparently a couple days prior, when we left for Paris for two days, and I shut up all the windows that normally stay open all day/all night during warm weather, the little guy flew in. Then when we left and we shut the house up he couldn't fly out and ended his little bat days in my red jog bra. Collective sigh, I know.

And now, I'll leave you to enjoy the other pictures my morbidly inquisitive self took (if you click on them they enLarge!)--I love bats and am happy that after this sad affair we continue to see a couple fly about in the evenings, ridding us of pesky insects. In fact, I'm already forming the plan to make sure we disturb them as little as possible when....IF....the renovations ever start.I know, all the fun stuff happens to me, you're jealous.