Don't know if that's even close to the proper word, perhaps too much of a negative connotation, given a general predisposition. I could look it up to see, find the etymology (if humbug, entomology), but (again, given) I can't say I really care that much. We'll chalk it up to something akin to Russia and now the Ukraine, most likely bots, the inordinate number of hits from the UK seeking information on a certain moth.
That moth has decreased in numbers over that last few years out in our fields. It could be a good thing, a testament to my vigilance at eradicating their food source, or something more ominous. Don't know, and therefore, as with so many other things I could hazard an ivory-towered-desk-chair guess at, I won't waste your time.
Today is rather special, believe it or not. DW and I have been married for thirteen years. I am choosing to call it "Lucky 13" even though she has a stomach virus. We had planned an overnight to the coast but will content ourselves with a movie and some popcorn on the couch. We've rescheduled.
Besides, it's drizzling. Good for the lettuce I planted yesterday, but the nightshade family of veggies are beginning to look like they must surely feel: neglected.
So, everything but the basil is in the ground. There's a small area at the end of the cucumber row for it. When it's ready. Everything in its own time. Even when it's late.
Meanwhile, I await a new review to be published; a job letter is close to its final draft stage; and I haven't forgotten about that fucking Gray Digger (California Ground Squirrel, Ken).