The big brown anemone that came home on Canada Day stands front and centre, more or less. Usually less; he's sulking. If the water's too cold, or too warm, or too old, or too slow, he sulks. If a hermit steps on him, he sulks. Sometimes, for no reason that I can see, he puckers up his mouth like a baby tasting a pickle, hunkers down, and sulks for hours.
And in between those times, he sometimes dances.
|Lift those skirts!|
For a few minutes, I thought he was going to split in two, but no, he slid entirely off the shell he came home on, flapped his skirts a few more times, then slid back onto the shell and stood there sedately. He's there now, tall and glorious.
I'll post the whole kit and kaboodle tomorrow, I think.