Winter Fowl

As I sit at my computer staring out at the assortment of Christmas cards that have kindly been dispatched to my humble abode, I am struck, as ever, by the sheer volume of avian content that lies therein. Obviously people who know me know my interest in birds, and are, coincidentally, the people most likely to send me a Christmas card. But even so, a staggering number of the designs feature an array of wildlife, real or fictional, in wintery settings for my viewing pleasure.

Of the 23 cards that have wound their way into my house, there are 14 robins featured, 12 reindeer, six Santas, three penguins, two doves, one owl, one fox and one puffin, and one unidentified bird that looks like a dove but must be a partridge since it is depicted in a pear tree. This all reminds me of an article I wrote, some years ago, for a community website in Cornwall, and which I now reproduce below, describing some of our festive avian associations. Enjoy!

The Robin

As a seven year old child I fell into the classic trap of identifying the robin as a winter species. I was at a field meeting for the Young Ornithologists Club (the YOC – not an organisation to reel in members with its uber-trendy nomenclature! Thankfully the youth branch of the RSPB has been revamped since then). We were asked whether the robin was a summer or winter bird, and eager to impress my new found fellow young ornithologists, I leapt forth with the answer that it was, of course, a winter bird. How did I know? Because I had seen one (I can only assume the same one) on every Christmas card, present, wrapping and advert under the ever shortening sun. And yet a moment’s conscious thought would have reminded me that this is a species that we see in summer too. The robin is possibly a victim of a highly successful marketing strategy. It certainly has had religious connections for hundreds of years, and it is one of the few species to remain territorial all year round, so will sing in winter more than many species do. However, it was likely introduced to cards to symbolise postal workers delivering at Christmas time – the red breast closely matching the uniform of our native ‘posties’, and the original cards containing images of the robin actually carrying the mail. Over time the association with Pat was lost, but the robin continued on its wintery way to become our national bird. Not so much victim as victor.

 

A Robin proving me right

 

The Partridge and associated friends

I will assume here that you are all well versed (and perhaps rehearsed) in the art of Christmas songs. In one particularly popular ditty, a whole menagerie of birds, people and inanimate objects are lumped together in descending numerical order, culminating in a partridge (and a pear tree, for the benefit of those who claim the RSPB only cares about birds!). This seems most unlikely to me, since partridges are generally ground dwelling birds, and I have never seen one in a tree at all. Currently, it is becoming increasingly difficult to see the grey, or ‘English’ partridge at all, as the population continues to decline.

Grey 'English' Partridge

 

The red-legged, or ‘French’ partridge is our bird’s continental cousin, and has become the more common of the two in many places. It is unclear which of the two species the song refers to. Turtle doves are similarly scarce in the UK. This species has long been associated with marital tenderness, though I do not know whether that is a reason for its inclusion in the song. A combination of habitat loss and hunting on migration has reduced the population of turtle doves in the UK to less than a quarter of what it was 30 years ago. Turtle doves are summer migrants, so they will all have fled the encroaching winter long before Christmas arrives. White doves (though not our native turtle doves) feature on many cards as symbols of peace, with obvious religious connotations. Swans often feature as a representation of love. The image of two swan necks bent into a heart shape adorns many cards, particularly those produced for Valentine’s Day. For geese the association may be more practical. It is likely that a number of game birds, both wild and domestic (and we can throw the French hens into this category), will feature on our Christmas menus as usual this year. In some cases they will be stuffed inside each other to create a Russian doll effect, with up to ten species crammed together. Though they do not feature in the song, and are neither wild nor native to our shores, it would be wrong to deliver a Christmas sermon without at least mentioning the turkey! Another bird-related line from the song concentrates on four ‘calling birds’. One argument suggests that these are blackbirds, as it could derive from an original term ‘collie’, which means black and comes from an old word for coal. It is to this species, and it’s nearest and dearest, that we turn next. 

Blackbirds - male on left!

Blackbirds and other Thrushes

These are birds which have a genuine association with winter. Although we have a resident population of blackbirds, song and mistle thrush in the UK, their numbers are swelled by other birds flying south to winter in our milder climate. With these come redwing and fieldfare, which are only present here in the winter. The redwing is similar to a song thrush, but with a red flash under the wing and a more prominent eye stripe. The fieldfare is a larger bird, with blues and greys coating its back, but still maintaining some of the spotted chest we see on other thrushes. Both of these species will come to gardens in search of food, and have a particular fondness for apples and berries. They can be seen currently stripping berries from our hedgerows.

The Penguin

For a UK birdwatcher, Christmas is by far the best time to see a penguin. As a southern hemispheric family, penguins are not accustomed to arriving on our shores in considerable numbers. But an association between penguins and cold conditions has left them the dubious honour of featuring in our Christmas thoughts (though I’m yet to find a recipe that includes one!). It is worth remembering that our winter will actually be their summer, and I would be interested to find out whether penguins grace the covers of Australian Christmas cards. The majestic emperor penguins will be huddled together, braving the elements in a bid to raise their single chicks. Incidentally, it would be a fair assumption that the fascinating but treacle-coated film ‘March of the Penguins’ will be part of our TV schedules over Christmas.

A marching penguin

 

Serendipity

Those of you who read my post 'Polite Strangers' will have seen that I suggested a daft social experiment whereby I invited you all to text random things to random strangers to see what response you get. I received one random text (from someone I knew) informing me that Giggleswick were competing against Broadbottom in the welly wanging championship the following day. I can only assume the rest of you kept your experiments to yourselves. So in the absence of any results from that teaser, I'm suggesting another one.

I recently acquired a ten pound note on which someone had written their name - Helena Randall. I don't know Helena Randall, but I thought it might be interesting to try to trace her and return her tenner. The name is common enough that I'm not going to get anywhere by searching google - a quick search reveals a Helena Randall who sells portraits and another who is Senior Regional Marketing Manager at Lambert Smith Hampton, but there are probably hundreds of Helena Randalls out there, and no way for me to narrow down which one is most likely to have written her name on a banknote.

So instead I need to assume that the name was originally placed on the note in some form of experiment, to see whether it ever got back to it's rightful owner, Helena Randall. So it is at least possible that Helena Randall will be searching for the note, and if she was to put 'Helena Randall ten pound note' into a search engine, this blog post would now appear somewhere on the list! However, in an attempt to raise the profile of the post in any search, and in case any of you should know a Helena Randall through your friends or friends of friends, I now invite you to share this post to see how far we can cast the net.

I believe a similar premise was the storyline for a very cheesy rom com called Serendipity. Whilst I can't recall the exact details (yes, of course the note came back round, they fell in love, yawn and eventually vomit), I would like to offer the note back to Helena Randall in the event that we establish contact. I might even frame it! (Incidentally, if anyone knows a Helena Randall who didn't sign the note, but fancies claiming it, I will of course be conducting a handwriting test!).

So spread the news far and wide, and if you're out there Helena Randall please get in touch!

Head in Hands

From time to time I've been gripped by a strange phenomenon. When resting my head back into a cupped hand, I've had a disconcerting feeling that either my hand is very large or my head is very small. In reality, I think neither is the case, but I clearly have a disproportionate opinion of their relative sizes. My hand simply does not seem large enough to cradle the bulk of my head. Nor should my head be small enough to sit neatly inside my hand. I wonder if Jeremy Beadle ever had this problem.

Polite Strangers

Many of you will know my feelings on technology (see here). Despite the wealth of functions that technology performs in my life on a daily basis, there are times when I want to hurl a glass of orange juice over my laptop simply to teach it a lesson. However, today I had a pleasant technological exchange with a complete stranger. I received a text from a random number that neither I nor my phone recognised, and over the next half hour or so I conversed with 'Dave' in the following manner:

Dave: Hi just a reminder you are all stamp and deliver tonight 17.45-20.45. Dave
Me: What does this mean?! I'm confused!
Dave: If you are still an explorer scout you are due to do stamp and deliver mail sorting tonight. Dave
Me: I'm 31 & have never been an explorer scout before. Do I still qualify?!
Dave: I bet you don't live in allestree either?
Me: Nope! But thanks for the invite! Enjoy the stamping.
Dave: Happy Christmas

I like Dave. I don't know much about him, but I assume he is a volunteer co-ordinating scouts in Allestree (where is Allestree?!). He's also polite and mildly amusing. Which makes him probably a decent chap. I might start texting a few random numbers over the coming weeks, offering a bizarre and varied assortment of evening activities, to see if I can elicit any similar responses. Perhaps along the lines of 'Don't forget it's drinking chess night at the village hall - bring a friend!' or 'Chicken race night at the pub in Bonsall this friday' (this one actually exists!). I invite you to try this too, and post the best responses below!

A Bunch of Tools

As a moving in present, my sister and her husband kindly gave me a tool box. Even as I unwrapped it, I knew what lay within, and a surge of adrenaline swept through my veins. On opening the box all manner of devices stared back at me: hammer, spirit level, tape measure, assorted screwdrivers, clamps and an army of allen keys. 

Now I've never been one for DIY and about as practical as a cat, but there is something vaguely exciting about owning tools. I might go so far as to suggest that it raises my manliness level another notch, without really knowing why. Perhaps some degree of genetic cave-dwelling man joy persists from my hunter-gatherer past, and is expressed solely through the ownership of tools (or in some people through the proliferation of body hair).

As if to demonstrate that my thought processes had moved on little since our troglodyte past, I immediately set about using every tool that I could for no apparent reason, with gratuitous tightening of any available nut and bolt on offer. I also started a collection of all the 'loose' nails, screws, more allen keys and tool-based paraphernalia that I could find, on the off-chance that I might one day need to repair something and have just the right equipment to carry it out. I'm willing to bet that I won't since everything seems to have it's own unique size and shape and is completely unwilling to multitask. And when my mate loaned me his drill, my initial action was to pretend to be a robot whilst revving the machine, and my second thought was of mild panic that I had to make a permanent hole in one of the walls.

To further demonstrate my lack of manliness, I don't actually know what all the tools are or what function they could possibly perform. I've made an educated guess where I can, but suspect that some of them will remain safely tucked up in their moulded positions within the box. And the final, erm, nail in the coffin of masculinity came when I was unable to tighten a screw to the desired tautness, and had to rely on a female friend to finish the job. What a tool!   

Technofear Part 6

Have you ever noticed that, when working on a slow computer, your patience is ever so slightly shorter than the period of time it takes for the computer to complete whatever task you have asked of it? For example, when a page is loading, and some of the page appears, including, say, the next button or link that you want to press, but you know it is not ready for you to move on yet as the rest of the page is still loading and the little cursor has not turned into the righteous hand of advancement, but you decide to click anyway, just as the page loads something else, everything moves, and you end up opening an advert for a car or a video featuring a llama kicking a small child, instead of the page you actually wanted. Then of course it starts to load the wrong page in an equally time-consuming fashion, forcing you to sit grimacing until it completes before you click on the back button, starting the whole process over again. Or worse still, you get impatient on the wrong page and the same thing happens, starting a never ending game of chinese e-whispers, where you end up on something totally unrelated to your original target page, as your computer wastes all of its valuable processing power loading a sequence of irrelevant documents. 

It's in the Jeans

I own a pair of jeans that I don’t often wear. I don’t often wear this pair of jeans because they’re not the most practical or comfortable pair of jeans at all times. When wearing the jeans recently, I contemplated what it was that made them slightly uncomfortable and impractical. It seemed to me that these jeans contain exactly the right amount of material, but in the wrong places. For example, the pockets are not the most practical. At the front, there is not enough depth to carry a wallet or a phone, but at the back the pocket stretches down like the Marianas Trench. Placing important items in the rear pockets results in embarrassing retrieval situations where it appears as though you are losing an arm down your backside. God forbid the phone should ring and you have to retrieve it in a hurry. At least nobody can steal your wallet from you. Also, the bottom of the legs flare more than I like, but the hips are slightly too tight. If some of the excess material used to flare the legs could have been redistributed to the hips the jeans would be more comfortable. Perhaps I need to redistribute some of my waist around my ankles to solve this problem. Or buy a very long phone. Perhaps I just need new jeans.

Public Service Broadcast

The time has come for me to have a rant on one of my favourite rantable topics – customer service. I recently purchased an item online – a bean bag – for my new home. The website claimed it offered free delivery, so I duly entered my card details and parted with the requisite amount of money in return for the bag. During no part of these proceedings was any information given to inform me of the likely dispatch of my bean bag and what arrangements had been made for its delivery. For all I knew it would be a year before it arrived, whilst it was lovingly crafted from a billion individual beans. I had given the delivery address as my new house, but since I was not yet living there I would have to be present to receive the package.

A few days later I received a text message from a company called Yodel, informing me in an upbeat and excitable way that they would be delivering my bean bag that very day! Upbeat and excitable though I was to hear this news, I was also slightly put out as it was a day when I had already made plans, and would not be around to receive the bean bag upon arrival. Sure enough, I returned home to find the usual note saying they had called only to find that I was unexpectedly not at home. Though the card gave space for them to leave a contact number I could call to arrange a convenient time, no number was included. Nor were any other details about how I could locate my bean bag and arrange for its safe passage. Later on I received a second text message informing me again that they had tried to deliver my bean bag, and that it would automatically be delivered again the following day. This was excellent news, since the following day was a Sunday when I had planned to be home all day.

Sunday arrived and I waited eagerly for the bean bag to arrive. No time slot had been given, but the helpful card left the day before suggested that delivery could take place at any point between the hours of 07:30 and 21:00, a convenient 13.5 hour window during which I was expected to remain incarcerated in my own house. As the day wore on I began to feel deflated, then melancholy, then cynical and I finally checked their web site for further information. The web site informed me that they do not deliver on a Sunday. This seemed reasonable, except that I had been told by text that they would in fact do so. So I gave up.

On Monday I assumed that they would attempt the delivery again, but since I was at work all day there was little I could do about this. After work I found the same pointless and uninformative card left again with no further information. I went back onto the web site and rescheduled the delivery for Thursday, a day that I already had off work to take another delivery.

Thursday arrived and I yearned for my bean bag to arrive. The morning passed uneventfully, until the IKEA delivery came and went. By late afternoon my cynicism returned, and though they still had hours left to fulfil their promise of delivering before 9pm, I had to make a dash to get some food. Fearing that my absence would coincide perfectly with their arrival, I left a note saying that I was just minutes away and could they call me if they arrived. I returned 20 minutes later to find the note still in place, and then sat waiting for a further three hours, finally leaving at 9.30pm.

On the Friday morning I tried to trace my package on the Yodel website, only to be told that it had been delivered. This was news to me, since it certainly wasn’t at the delivery address. I decided the time had come to call the insane people at Yodel and find out more. The nice customer service lady apologised profusely and tried to locate my bean bag with no success. Since nobody seemed to know where it was, she said she would have to start an investigation, but that it might take days to trace the bean bag. I told her what I thought of that, and promptly returned to the website to tell them what I thought of it too. Having finally navigated to a page where I could leave a long-winded ranty complaint not dissimilar to this one, I hit send only to be told that my long-winded complaint was too long-winded for their comments box, which was limited to 1500 words. This was the final kick in the teeth of dissatisfaction. So I cut my complaint in half and submitted it twice, with a small ‘to be continued’ message at the end of the first one and an additional statement at the end of the second one about how unbelievably awful their complaints procedure was, similar to their outlook on customer service.

Having been told that the investigation could take days, I forgot about the bean bag delivery and carried on living my life. On the Sunday, I was popping into the house for five minutes to pick up recycling, only to be greeted by a Yodel delivery man complete with my bean bag. This was unexpected, since it was in fact a Sunday, the day of Yodel rest. It was also massively fortuitous since I was there for all of five minutes, and can only assume that a few minutes either side would have resulted in me missing the delivery yet again and going on a whopping rampage down the streets of ineptitude.

I have heard nothing back from Yodel. No confirmation that the parcel has been delivered, no apology, no pathetic attempt to quell my intense hatred for everything they stand for. Though I am delighted to have my bean bag safely ensconced in my new abode, there will always be a part of me that recalls the immense frustration of getting it here. Yodel took that from me. 

Home Sweet Home

It turns out its November. How did that happen? And how is it that I failed to post a single thing on here during October?! Well largely it’s down to being ridiculously busy. Work is demanding as ever, despite the birds having now left on migration. Hockey keeps me entertained several days a week, with training and matches coming thick and fast. And I’ve had another wedding to attend, including taking a few snaps on the big day and the necessary editing afterwards. But mostly it’s because I bought a house.

Housebuying has been an interesting experience. When I started looking into it, way back in spring, I felt totally ignorant and naïve of the process. I looked at my finances and spoke to a mortgage advisor and determined what sort of thing I was looking for, but I expected that to be the start of a long and tedious wait for the perfect property to emerge. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. I thought I was just dipping my toe into the complex waters of real estate, only to be sucked under and pulled along for a few months, struggling to come up for air, until finally I washed up on a distant shore with a house. I’m not really sure how it happened.

Without sharing all of the dull details (of which there were many), the process made me excited and nervous in equal measure. Having seen a place that I liked and put in an offer, things moved quickly and reams of paperwork would arrive with my name on, asking for signatures and agreements for things that I had no comprehension of. Commitments came thick and fast, and frankly I could have been signing up to anything, parting with vast quantities of money in the process. As is customary the solicitors were not fantastic, but they got the job done, as did the estate agent, and suddenly I was given a completion date. This was sooner than I had expected, and I was faced with the prospect of having to organise everything in a very short space of time. So instead I decided to continue renting for another month and make the transition as relaxed as possible.

There have been many highlights that spring to mind when contemplating the move. I hired a huge van to collect my stored goods from family in Devon, and had to learn how to reverse parallel park in it. It also had to be packed and unpacked several times. Since the new house is on a main road, any deliveries need to be made by holding up the traffic and dashing assorted boxes, bags and furniture as quickly as possible into the house. In some cases the easiest way in is through the front window. I’ve discovered plumbing that I never had a clue about. Extension pipes, y-shaped splitters and jubilee clips have become the norm. Most of all there’s just so much space. Space for clothes, space for food in the fridge and freezer, space for books, CDs and DVDs. Sadly this means that instead of throwing out all my useless rubbish I will now store it indefinitely. Tequila roulette finally has a home!

I am now living in my house, as I had indeed intended to when I purchased it. It’s delightful being able to sit at the dining table to eat, to clean the kitchen knowing that it will still be clean when I next visit, and to leave my stuff lying around if I’m feeling lazy because nobody else will suffer as a consequence. The best thing is being able to sing. Nobody is listening!!

But in case any of you are listening, I will apologise now if the next few posts are slightly swayed towards housing, moving, plumbing or meeting the neighbours. There’ll be stories to tell!

Scilly Season

It's been a while since I posted anything on here. Largely due to me being away from all forms of telecommunication on the stunning Isles of Scilly. If you haven't been, I strongly recommend it. For the last eight years I have been lucky enough to travel out there on 'business' each autumn for a week. The RSPB does a series of guided walks on Tresco each September, and I'm part of the squad that is hand-picked to provide members of the public with a unique and unforgettable insight to wildlife around the archipelago. Or so I hope!

Bryher and Tresco

A couple of years ago, the Isles of Scilly Seabird Project began. The aim of this work was to remove rats from St Agnes and Gugh. These islands (actually one island at low tide!) contain large numbers of breeding seabirds, including manx shearwater. Although manxies have been recorded on the islands each year, no chicks have fledged in living memory, because of the impact of the rats on eggs and chicks. So the removal of rats is critical to the survival of the species on these islands.

The 'Bar' connecting St Agnes and Gugh

Last winter, experts from New Zealand were flown in to begin the eradication, assisted by a merry band of volunteers. They began baiting rats and monitoring the population, and by Christmas there were no more signs of rats. This summer, more volunteers have been monitoring the shearwater burrows, and finally ten chicks have been recorded at about fledging age. Instant success!

Manx Shearwater

This is the story I get to tell visitors to the islands. Working in conservation can be quite depressing, with stories of declines, and recoveries taking a very long time. Here we have a fantastic example of what can be achieved when people work together. I get to natter with members of the public about this and other conservation issues, pointing out a few birds and other wildlife along the way, based at the beautiful Abbey Gardens on Tresco. And after eight years on the team, we've got the trip planning sussed.

Tresco Abbey Gardens

The best way to reach the islands, for me, is the Scillonion ferry. It can be a little choppy, and some people are not good on boats, as evidenced on both trips this year (both flat!) when one ill passenger managed to be sick overboard on the top deck, coating many of their fellow passengers on the deck below! But it's a great chance to spot wildlife, with seabirds, seals, sunfish, dolphins and whales all on the potential menu.

Common Dolphin

The boat docks at St Mary's, the largest of the islands, from where you can access the other 'off islands' by inter-island boat. Four other islands are inhabited: St Agnes, St Martins, Tresco and Bryher. Each has a different feel and atmosphere. St Agnes is isolated, St Martin's has picturesque wide sandy beaches, Tresco is manicured, and Bryher is wild and rugged. It is to Bryher that we head first, armed with camping gear. Bryher is our base for the week, despite working on Tresco. This means we have the best commute in the world, setting off from our home on the camp site, down to the quay to get the school boat across to Tresco, then walking up past the shop to pick up large quantities of bread and cheese for lunch, along the great pool and into the hides spotting rare birds, before passing the Abbey and on to our working base at the Abbey Gardens.

Rugged Bryher

Before we get to work we may have seen Lapland bunting, ortolan bunting, spotted crake, little stint, green sandpiper, curlew sandpiper, spotted redshank, spotted flycatcher, whinchat, redstart, and wryneck. Look them up! The wryneck is something that I see every year on the islands, and don't see anywhere else. It's a migrant woodpecker, and has a bizarre habit of twisting it's neck around and flicking it's tongue out. It does this when it feels threatened, to mimic a snake and ward off predators. The Latin name for this species is Jynx torquilla. The 'torquilla' part means 'little twister' in respect to this behaviour. The Jynx part originates in Greek mythology. Iynx was a Greek goddess who used a wyneck love-charm to make Zeus fall in love with Io. When Hera, Zeus' official consort, found out, she transformed Iynx into a wryneck as punishment. This is where we get the word 'Jinx' from - a curse or spell cast.

Lapland Bunting

Even from our base we can now see red squirrels, stick insects, and golden pheasants - all introduced to the island by man, just as the rats made it there by ship and shipwreck. We spend the day doing guided walks, turning round one every hour, and I can hear myself saying the same thing over and over again. Then it's back across the island for the last boat back to Bryher, a spot more birding and then a camp meal together. Having spent all day on our feet and smiling like a synchronised swimmer it's time to cook up a feast from fresh veg and whatever goodies we brought in the food hamper. Huge piles of pasta, curry and chilli adorn our plates each evening, all cooked al fresco over a small stove while watching the sun set over the Atlantic. And then to the pub.

Golden Pheasant

The Fraggle Rock Bar on Bryher is where we spend our evenings, indulging in a pint or two of local ale and running through the day's sightings, chatting with residents and tourists alike, and partaking of the odd game of bananagrams or a geeky bird-related quiz. It also does a killer fish and chips. Many a fine evening has been had here: a perfect end to a busy and tiring day, before staggering back to the camp site under the immense beauty of the milky way, and crawling back into the tent and passing out.

2014 Team!

In Groundhog Day style, we do this all over again, on repeat, for the full week, before final packing up our bags and returning to the mainland. It's quite a shock going back into the 'real' world from somewhere where the time of the tide is the most important time, where emails, internet and news are inaccessible, and where you can forget about all your cares, worries and responsibilities. If you ever need a true break from the busy world, this is the place.

Scilly Sunset

When you gotta go...

I was merrily strolling along the pavement lately when I noticed a neat geometric pattern on the tarmac. It was along the low walls at the front of the houses, and lasted for ten feet or so with systematic regularity. I stopped to ponder its origin. It appeared to be made from water, as though someone carrying a water bottle had made a continuous line by squirting it as they went. But there were no gaps or pauses in the line, and the repetitiveness of the pattern suggested something more organised. It reminded me slightly of that wonderful preserve of children's summer holidays - Spirograph. People of a certain age will have shared many a dull day spirographing away to their heart's content, becoming only mildly frustrated when the clips came loose and the pattern was ruined. Anyhow, the evidence suggested a trail of water, somehow with a regularity to it, that lasted for just a handful of seconds, and I couldn't help but wonder whether some poor dog had tried to relieve itself in the time-honoured fashion, only to be hauled along by an impatient owner, spraying concentric circles of urine as it went. A four-legged beast such as this walks with a regular gait, and no doubt the poor hound was forced to trot along behind its master, simultaneously manufacturing the greatest show of territoriality ever seen in the animal kingdom; something of which Tracey Emin would be proud. This revelation led me to wonder whether other canines in the locality were left in awe of this particular pooch, or gave it a wide birth. Surely the artist in question is top dog in my neighbourhood.

Ice Ice Baby

Regular readers of the blog may have noticed that I have a tendency towards cynicism. I enjoy a good moan. I like being a grumpy old man before my time. One of my particular passions is bemoaning the pace of technology. Even though I grew up alongside the developing internet, have owned a mobile phone for years and can navigate my way around a computer with reasonable ease, I am flummoxed by relatively minor technological wizardry such as apps, projectors, replacement phones, passwords, and Bulgarian shower fittings (see here!). One thing that I am dubious about is social media. I use Facebook but not Twitter. I write a blog but don't send texts in text-speak. Part of me is willing but part of me longs for simpler times. And so it is with Facebook.

Facebook has become unstoppable. Part of me resents that, because it forces us into using it by it's sheer domination. If I want to catch up with friends, I'm as likely to do so on Facebook than on the phone or email. I can see photos from their lives and people expect mine to be posted shortly after each event - events which I've probably been invited to on Facebook! Everything is instant; accessible anywhere, anytime. There's probably now a stat for the amount of time the average teenager spends on Facebook each year. 

But for all my ranting, it's addictive. And every now and then something happens through social media that simply wouldn't have been possible previously. I'm talking about Ice. When in the past has any single charity received so much publicity, free of charge, reaching such a huge global audience? The only thing that springs to my mind is when Barcelona FC wear the Unicef logo on their shirts. Presumably this reaches a sizeable global audience, but how many of them then look up the charity or make a donation? The Ice Bucket Challenge has gone global, and sparked debate from all quarters. 

First and foremost, I think an initiative that encourages charitable giving is generally a good thing. ALS is a worthy cause, and the challenge has, apparently, brought in over £50 million for the ALS Association or Motor Neurone Disease Association so far. I have read comments from some people suggesting that people carrying out the challenge have lost site of the original aims - raising awareness of a terrible disease. But if these people are simultaneously donating, how important is that? In some cases people have, apparently, donated to the wrong charity having misunderstood who the challenge was supporting. Again, if somebody benefits, how much does that matter? In fact, more people benefit!

I'm a firm believer that giving to charity should be a personal choice, but I can't knock the fact that many more people are giving money as a result of the challenge. I chose to give to a different cause, and to adapt my challenge to fit my ethics. And I was interested to see that some other people have used their challenges to highlight other charities, and Matt Damon challenged people's criticisms of wasting water by doing his with toilet water! Fair play!

So in this case I applaud Facebook and social media, and the genuine impact it might have for people suffering from ALS. I salute those who do not normally give to charity but have been inspired to do so in this case. I admire those who have used the opportunity to support their own choice of charity or highlight another important issue. And I even feel a tinge of pride that I, momentarily, managed to put my grumpiness aside for a worthy cause.

If you haven't done it yet, I can recommend it. Or take on my alternative challenge - there's still money up for grabs for your chosen charity. Get involved and get donating!

Travel Woes

Dear First Great Western,

I am currently stood in the vestibule end of carriage B, next to the toilet, on the 10:25 from Salisbury to Bristol. I couldn’t help noticing your polite customer services feedback sticker on the wall next to me, as my face has been squashed against it for the last eight minutes. On it you state that you would welcome comments on how my journey is going, so here it is.

I am stood here because your train is crammed full. Full of people, baggage, buggies, newspapers, iPads and headphones. Yes, it is a bank holiday, and we all love travelling on a bank holiday, but it seems odd that the first train of the day isn’t until 10:25, and only contains three coaches.

In the vestibule area with me are eight other people, three bikes (one collapsible), two suitcases, a dog and an axe. I have no idea why the lady in the black top is carrying an axe, but in our close proximity it makes me nervous. At least in the event of an accident we can use it to make our way to freedom. As a result, things are a tad cramped in here. There is very little air as the train doors are those ‘modern’ ones with no windows in, and there seems to be no air conditioning. That is particularly noticeable as the toilet is out of order, and some sort of dampness is creeping out from it onto the carpet, causing the two teenage girls stood there to move away into the busier section, and a moderately unpleasant smell to pervade the vestibule area.

I must say that, considering this situation, everyone seems in quite high spirits. It is a bank holiday after all, and the chap in the green jacket is chatting away to other passengers merrily enough, but I can’t help thinking everyone might have a slightly better journey if they could find a seat that they didn’t have to share in an area that didn’t smell of wee. I assume that is roughly what we paid for, though in fairness my ticket made no promises of urine-free seating arrangements.

The journey itself ran relatively to time, with the only major annoyance being that I was stood in the doorway that opened at every station. This necessitated me removing my bag from the floor and trying not to damage the elderly lady or rotund gentleman who were stood next to me, whilst I made space for those leaving the train to de-train, and those boarding to join us in the vestibule area. It was an unfortunate irony that, when the time came for me to get off, the platform was on the other side of the train for the first time, resulting in another battle through the crowd, over the bikes, to freedom.  

Finally, I applaud your braveness in locating the customer services sticker in the vestibule area. I suspect that a sticker located adjacent to a comfortable seat in the carriage is unlikely to generate much response, but one stuck at eye level in a cramped standing-room-only part of the train adjacent to a broken toilet is masterful.

Many thanks for listening to my feedback, and good luck with the rest of the bank holiday.

Yours sincerely,

Mildy perturbed commuter

Face Time

A couple of weeks ago our house living room clock stopped working. The batteries were fine, but the hands couldn't turn because the circular card which listed the numbers 1-12 in a clockwise direction around the clock edge, as is customary, had warped and cracked and now blocked the second hand from continuing on it's never-ending quest towards the end of time.

I managed to find a way to remove the front cover and then poke out the card, but it was flaky and looked odd missing just a 2, so I took the whole thing out. The clock was now a shadow of it's former self. Without numbers, it's surprising how difficult it can be to tell the time, despite the hands still being in exactly the same place. Confusion reigned. I started turning up late, overcooking my dinner, missing the headlines - all because of the faceless clock. After a week or two it was getting to me, so I did this:

It didn't help to tell the time much, but I found it very amusing. My housemate was, of course, delighted to be the new face of the clock. For a week or so she peered down at us while we dashed through the living room, trying to avoid her beady eye. Then after a week or so, this appeared:

I suspect I know who the culprit is. Her mug shot was plastered to the clock just days earlier. I am at least pleased that she captured my best side. I sense the clock war is not over. Time to go back on the offensive!

All the Small Things

Sometimes the little things in life entertain me. Take this morning, for example. As usual, I had gone to the bathroom to brush my teeth. But in a break from the normal toothpaste procuring routine, my blob of toothpaste, inspired by a small bubble of air nestled behind it in the tube, leapt forth into the air, neatly hopping over the outstretched toothbrush and landing with a thud on the bath mat. This could have been annoying, since the toothpaste cleaning function was wasted on the mat, and indeed made a sticky mess when I tried to clear it up. But for some reason I found this whole instance rather amusing. The initial hurdle and kamikaze dive by the toothpaste was sufficiently comic to raise a chuckle or two. And the sound it made when landing seemed to perfectly reflect my emotions during the routine morning ablutions. Having raised a chuckle, I then chuckled further at the absurdity of it all, and before long found myself giggling like a schoolgirl while standing alone in my dressing gown, gazing into the mirror. Before long I was a gibbering wreck, and could scarcely recall what the original instance was that had caused such hilarity. I find it’s good to be entertained by inconsequential, irrelevant moments such as this. It relieves the otherwise monotonous tedium of the daily rituals we all subscribe to.

Get Inspired

I've just spent a weekend catching up with some old friends. The friend's themselves aren't that old, but I've known them a while and have seen far too little of them in recent years. One thing that I enjoy when running over several year's worth of news is hearing about all the amazing things people have done in that time. Oddly it seems to be the one things that Facebook is good for. People don't tend to post statements or photos of mundane days in the office or food shopping trips, but instead reserve their home page space for travel, seeing friends and amazing adventures. It is possible to imagine, therefore, that all of your friends (or at least Facebook friends) are living adrenaline fuelled, adventurous lives of continual travel, excitement and intrigue. Whilst our own lives seem dominated by the dull, uninteresting tedium of everyday life. So it's no wonder that, from time to time, it feels good to be inspired by those around you. For no other reason than that I thought I would share a couple of videos with you. This one brings out the feel good factor and this one will make you want to pack a bag and head off into the unknown. If that's not enough for you, watch Walter Mitty.

Window Cleaning

Does anyone else find it strangely satisfying watching a window cleaner at work? There’s something hugely efficient about the way they clean the soapiness off the window using an implement that looks a bit like an upmarket windscreen wiper. I always wanted one of those tools, and suspect that I would have been considerably more inclined towards cleaning if I had one.

Our landlady has pre-paid a window cleaner to do our windows. So he just turns up and gets on with it. The first thing we know about his presence is a scraping sound on the window that wakes you up and gives you the fright of your life. If, in a dozy and confused state, you open the curtain’s to find out which particular assailant is trying to break in through the window, you are liable to get a nice jet of water and possibly soap suds squirted through the open window at you. He doesn’t worry if the windows are open. Water and soap comes flooding in over the curtains and any other household objects that happen to be located within splashing distance. The most impressive aspect of the ‘clean’ is that he has no ladders, instead favouring giant wobbly extendable tubes that reach my window on the second floor. Which means of course that he doesn’t get to use the windscreen wiper implement, and therefore all enjoyment of the process is gone.

Fashion

What determines when something comes back into fashion? Looking around today I see a lot of people harnessing the power of the 1980s in their clothing choices. But there must be a finite period of time during which something could be fashionable again, because you don’t see many people dressing like they did in the 1880s. Presumably this is linked to comfort and practicality. But how far back could we go before we become unfashionable again?!

On the way to work I saw a young lady in a skirt that appeared to be made entirely out of doilies. It was very tasteful really, but it reminded me of cake: my Gran’s cake to be precise. I used to love the days when a three-tier coffee cake would be wheeled into the living room on a trolley, sitting proudly atop a doily. And who doesn't love a trolley with cake on?! Mobile cake is, for some inexplicable reason, far more tempting than static cake. Doilies must be the preserve of elderly woman who bake, since I have never seen the in use anywhere else (except by some ladies’ skirt manufacturers perhaps). I’m not even sure what their function is. It must be entirely decorative since they contain enough holes to render their possible usefulness as a crumb collecting device null and void.

Incidentally, when did ‘hard’ icing go out of fashion?! I used to enjoy a bit of hard icing, though soft icing is equally delish, and does not flake and fall on the floor like hard icing when you bite into it. Sometimes pre-empting the flaking was the best thing about hard icing, since you could peel it off and eat it separately. Perhaps I need to dress as I did in the 1980s and eat hard icing again. Perhaps not.

Eurotrip Day 5

Day 5: The Return

With the weekend over there was nothing left to do but return to Blighty. Breakfast involved another croissant attempt and tea fail, and then we made our way to the airport. Check in and security seemed pretty straightforward, largely because there were only six gates in the whole terminal. We found ours and awaited the call. When it came, Fran and Graham again had priority boarding, leaving Mum, Dad and I to wait another half hour in our seats. When we finally passed through the gate, we were squashed into a bus the was already at capacity. On the adjacent bus, which was totally full, stood Fran and Graham. Having used up their priority pass they had been made to wait, standing, in the bus while everyone else piled in. When the plane was finally ready, the buses made their way across 50 yards of tarmac before stopping to let us out. Even in the heat of the day, I suspect I would have made it on foot

Now it was a mad dash as the doors opened to grab the best seats. Uncertain which seats were best, I let Mum plough on and Dad and I followed behind, swept up by the mass exodus from the buses. We managed to secure a row of three seats, and made ourselves comfortable. Dad attempted to secure his seat belt, only to find half of it missing. In the ensuing search, the people in the seats behind became involved. When explaining that he didn't have a seat belt, a bloke behind called out 'This is WizzAir mate! You're lucky to have a seat!'

The same rush through safety arrangements in what probably amounted to two languages followed, and we set off. The flight itself was uneventful, but as we came in to land the plane bounced and broke very forcefully, then everyone broke into applause. I think I will try that tactic next time I take a taxi, and see if it gives the taxi driver any additional feeling of satisfaction to know that I appreciated him doing his job. The final kick in the WizzAir teeth was when they announced the UK time wrong, as they had done on the way out. I don't think British summer time has been noted by the ruthlessly efficient people at WizzAir.

Then a bus, a train, a tube and two more trains conspired to get me home again. Congratulations Dot and Gray, and thanks to you both, and to the GlenTomalins an friends for a truly memorable weekend. Click here to see the video.

Eurotrip Day 4

Day 4: The Hangover Tour

Day 4 started earlier than it needed to. In part due to Day 3 encroaching several hours into the early morning, but also because of an early breakfast call from mum, which was ignored in favour of slumber. However, there was a pre-arranged lunch to attend and I needed to retrieve my camera bag that Fran and Graham had kindly taken on when I headed for the club. I agreed to pick it up from their room without realising the problem this would cause. The automatic room key Schindler's lift scenario is highly clever when going to your own floor, but makes getting to another floor virtually impossible. Only the communal floors are findable using the traditional, tried and tested method of pressing a button. Although I tried pressing floor 6, the lift refused to take me there. It did, however, go to another floor, where a couple of other people had summoned it. I then had to travel to where they needed to go before deciding whether to try again or hope that in the fullness of time someone from floor 6 would summon the lift. I opted for the stairs, and made my way up four flights to find that key card access was needed to get into the floor as well! So now I was stranded in the stairwell, only able to escape via my own floor or the lobby. None of this was satisfactory to my throbbing head, so I gave up.

Lunch was an equally testing affair for my head, but nibbling at some salad and necking vast quantities of water improved the situation considerably, and I was soon ready for the afternoon walking tour of Sofia. The tours take you around some of the main attractions of the city centre, with the guide explaining their cultural, historical and religious significance. First we saw a the church of St Nedelya, where the worst Bulgarian terrorist atrocity was carried in 1925. The king was due to be present but escaped unharmed because he was late.

St Nedelya Church

We then saw a statue that had been erected in honour of St Sophia, who was, apparently, nothing to do with the city of Sofia. In fact the statue had offended local clergy as the good lady was adorned with pagan symbols. Worse still, it seemed to have been modelled on this year's Eurovision winner, Conchita.

Saint Sofia or Conchita Wurst?

A lot of the buildings had the square boldness of Communism stamped across them, including the National Theatre, the government buildings and even some of the old churches were dwarfed by the new buildings that had risen around them.

 

 

  

The tour also showed us a slice of Bulgarian life: the people enjoying a Sunday afternoon in the sun, eating ice creams in the parks, relaxing or playing music and games. And in some cases taking a much needed siesta.

 

 

 

Finally we saw the market, with it's bright stalls selling vibrantly coloured scarves and Russian dolls sat incongruously among tables of antique cameras and assorted large knives.

The Bulgarians seem to like their statues and fountains, and sometimes both. There was a water fountain that would have been more at home at a water park, a naked lady dancing in a fountain in front of the theatre, and these grumbling men, all of whom appeared to be in various stages of distress.

 

Most importantly, there was this shrub in the road.

 

The walking, the heat, the hangover and the lack of sleep conspired against me by this point, so I grabbed a club sandwich and an ice cream and hit the hotel pool and sauna (the ice cream and club sandwich were gone by this point). A thoroughly relaxing way to end the weekend.

Eurotrip Day 3

Day 3: The Wedding!

I expected to wake to a red wine hangover but felt OK when I got up. The big day lay ahead, and breakfast was calling. Opting for a non-horse policy today we went in search of croissants, and having come across a lovely picture of one attempted to order relevant breakfasts and associated tea for those that wished. Needless to say, the English tea was not English, and the French breakfast contained no croissant, but instead it was the Italian brekky that came up trumps.

Feeling pleased with my dining choices, I headed for the Museum of Natural History, where, for the bargain price of £1.60 I could ogle all manner of dead things. This was a proper old school collection, and I was blown away by the sheer volume of stuffed creatures on display. I'm not criticising the practice, as the collectors of the Victorian era advanced our knowledge and understanding of global wildlife considerably. And it was pretty impressive to see a wider array of bird species than I have probably seen on all of my global travels. They had specimens of all the species I have worked with or that the regional RSPB team has worked with - cirl buntings, cranes, bustards, stone-curlews, lapwings, montagu harriers to name a few. And rows upon rows of butterflies, beetles, and other insects perfectly preserved and catalogued. 

Bulgarian Bug Life

After the museum it was time to think about lunch, so I met up with Mum and had a delicious and nutritious salad. On our way back to the hotel afterwards we detoured via the Cathedral. This magnificent building sits proudly in a wide square, dominating the skyline.

The Cathedral

Impressive as it was outside, the inside was even better. The cool interior and gentle song of orthodox Christians drifted across the large central area, with a mix of tourists and pilgrims giving respectful contemplation to the scene within. Although photography was not encouraged, I had to capture the scene within.

I saw the light

 

Quiet Reflection

 

By the time we emerged is was about time to get changed for the wedding. The weather was muggy and the thought of wearing a suit did not fill me with joy. But the thought of celebrating with Dot and Gray and assorted other friends and family most certainly did! As Gray works in the embassy, the Ambassador had kindly offered the use of his home for the wedding and reception. Too many jokes about Ferrero Rocher had already been made, and the beautiful garden made the perfect venue.

The ceremony was carried out in Bulgarian and English, using a translator. There seemed to be several occasions where the English translation contained considerably fewer words than the Bulgarian original, and I wondered why Bulgarians use so many words for our equivalent few. It transpired that the Bulgarian wedding ceremony is fixed, so that it is not possible to individualise the words (which explains why the lady delivering them was so very competent at their delivery!). But realising that the English guests would not need to hear the translation its entirety (it contained, I am told, quite a lot of sickly metaphors!), the translator managed to shorten it where appropriate to suit the happy couple and their guests.

Suppressing a chuckle!

 

Coated in Confetti

A couple of Bulgarian traditions were included in the ceremony. First, the couple had to stand back to back and break a loaf of bread over their heads. The person who controlled the larger half is said to be the trouser-wearer in the relationship. Thankfully in this case the two halves were pretty equal, so beginning a rigorous debate on who was in charge. Presumably the winner of the debate also won the dubious honour.

The search for the breadwinner begins

 

Dot thinks she's won!

 

Gray's not so sure!

 

The second tradition was for the bride to kick over a small bucket of water containing two roses - one red and one white. The rose that made it the furthest from the outstretched foot represented the sex of the first child. Unfortunately there seemed to be some confusion over which colour meant which sex, and nobody really knew the outcome.

 

 

Boy or Girl?

As the guests began to contemplate some food and drink the muggy conditions gave way to a sharp shower and brief thunderclap, but this only resulted in the sudden arrival of a load of umbrellas and a chance for guests to become intimately acquainted as the rain came down

A very diplomatic relationship

The food was topped off with a large selection of cakes provided by the Bulgarian guests. I may have mentioned previously my fondness for cake, and faced with such an array of sweet and tempting goodies I resolved to discipline myself, restricting my selection to just four small slices!

Cake monster!

After the cake the speeches also went down very well, with father of the bride, best man and groom all playing their roles to perfection, with a suitable blend of comedy, embarrassment and sincerity thrown together to keep everyone entertained. The couple emerged with most of their dignity in tact, and even seemed to briefly enjoy the spotlight!

The Best Man

 

The Sincerity

 

The Stupidity

 

We were all looking forward to the musical accompaniment, as a local rock band had been brought in to indulge us with an uplifting set of tunes highlighting the last 30-40 years of classic rock. The lead singer sported a 'Hard Rock Cafe' T-Shirt and a ponytail that Status Quo would have been proud of. With nervous trepidation we were uncertain whether we would spend the next hour or two listening to bad renditions of queen songs, but as soon as they began all of our worries faded away. Despite having a speaking voice that would qualify him as an extra in most Bond movies, the lead singer had a fabulous singing voice, and the playlist included a good range of hits to appeal to all ages.

Classic Rock Time!

 

The First Dance

 

One particular moment of comedy dancing genius deserves special mention. Usually, its pretty embarrassing watching family members dance, especially where generational disagreements over style and etiquette are concerned. So when uncle Ian hit the dance floor in boisterous mood, it was suggested that a dance-off with cousin James was in order. Someone yelled 'mosh pit', which Ian misinterpreted as 'stage dive'. Before we could stop him, he threw himself face first onto the dance floor, parting the assembled masses as he went. After much hilarity and several checks to ensure his bones were still in working order, we awarded the victory to Ian for action over ability. Inexplicably, the Tomalin family took to the dance floor, like a troop of epileptic octopuses, and at one point the whole damn dynasty was photographed jiving to rock around the clock.

 

So you think you can dance?

As the evening drew to a close, the bulk of the guests sensibly drifted off to bed. But somewhere in the dark recesses of a few minds a plan was forming that would see a dozen or more brave adventurers set forth into the Sofian night in search of a club. Again the pulse was racing as I wondered what I had signed up to, and we were whisked off to 'Sin City', a great warehouse  of a club that lived up to almost every stereotype imaginable. The men were charged to get in, the seats cost money to use, there were bottles of vodka on the tables and girls dressed as Vikings were dancing on the podium. The indeterminable hard house beat thumped ceaselessly in my ear, and we tried hard not to offend men who looked like they may represent the local mafia. Nevertheless we stayed, we drank, we danced, and we staggered home early morning to our assorted resting places across the city at the end of a fantastic celebration.