Another regular took its seat at the moth bar last night. You could define the progress of the summer by each newcomer if you were sufficiently moth-minded. I don't think I would go that far, but English literature might be improved if the occasional knowledgeable reference to a seasonal moth joined all the stuff about flowers and nightingales. Take for example the very handsome Dark Arches, above, a clear sign that we are getting towards July. It doesn't seem very dark to me, but there already is a Light Arches which is undeniably lighter.
After yesterday's rescue by Dean, I can at least salvage a bit of my tattered reputation by saying that this next trio are also Ingrailed Clays and 'proper' ones at that, in that (unlike yesterday's) they do resemble Richard Lewington's brilliant paintings in my guide. I have to admit that I coaxed them into this grouping which, to continue the pub metaphor, they resemble Ena Sharples, Minnie Caldwell and Martha Longhurst in Coronation Street of old. Or to change tack, is there something here of waiting for a bus for ages and then three come at once?
Finally, I will hazard a guess at the customer, left, and plump for Common Rustic (or Lesser Common Rustic, only distinguishable by examination of their genitalia which is an indignity too far in my opinion. On the other hand, it may be some sort of Dart, a tribe which could appear in virtually any chapter of novels set between April and October, so impressive is their breeding and longevity.
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