Names

I have to say that there are many things in life I could try to blame on my mum, but one that she is definitely responsible for is causing immense grief when it comes to online security. Almost every password protected account requires you to provide an answer to a back-up question; the universally popular ‘Mother’s maiden name’ question. And since my mother’s maiden name is ‘de la Perrelle’ it makes this all the more interesting. For anyone concerned that I have just revealed my final barrier to online fraud, I should point out that this is neither my password nor my ‘secret’ question. Basically because it is simply not possible to spell it correctly. Either spaces are not acceptable, or there’s some confusion over the number of ‘r’s and ‘l’s involved. It is nothing short of massively inconvenient, despite its interesting origin on the Channel Islands. It’s also quite interesting if you subscribe to the commonly held belief that you can derive your porn star name from your first pet and your mother’s maiden name, giving me ‘Hetty de la Perrelle’. Not so much porn star as 1930s burlesque dancer I suspect! And in case you were wondering, my first pet’s name was not my secret question either. Hetty was a chicken, by the way.

Hospital

I recently had the pleasure of getting a foot injury. And though I tried to shake it off the discomfort was still forcing me to hobble along like John Wayne after a week, so I spoke to my doctor who advised me to get an X-ray at A&E. The advantage of planning a visit to A&E is that you can search for the least busy time – just after the morning rush and before people have had long enough in the day to damage themselves, play sport or get drunk. I even had time to organise the laptop so I could work if I got stuck there for hours. So I turned up wondering who else I would be competing with. It’s a great game to play, guessing what is wrong with everyone else.

There was another chap there who looked uninjured when sitting down. He was dressed like a charity collector, with clipboard, charity top and name badge. I wondered whether he was actually on an ill-thought-through charity drive. Nobody donated, nor did he approach anyone asking for money, so I guess not.  At least three people had limps. That seemed to be the most common injury, but that’s only based on being able to spot a limp, whereas an arm or internal injury can sometimes be hidden from view. I think a couple of the limpers had nothing wrong with their legs at all but had developed an ailment in order to fit in with the rest of the patients. I guess nobody in A&E wants to be the one who looks fit and healthy. Bringing a laptop did not help my cause. If anyone asks I’ll say I dropped it on my foot.

Aside from feeling judged by the other patients, you also get to feel judged by the staff. Not that they were worried, but I felt the need to apologise for being a week late to get the X-ray. And then I was given the form that you have to fill in for social science that asks you to confess your  average weekly alcohol intake. I wonder if there is an official adjustment factor that accounts for the fact that everybody errs on the side of caution when ticking the relevant (or possibly irrelevant) box. Nobody would overestimate the amount they drink, and the justification for our lower than accurate answers comes from knowing that there was once a week, at some point several years ago, when you went without alcohol entirely, probably because you were seriously ill or residing in Saudi Arabia, and therefore that week must drag the average down to a level you deem acceptable even though it probably still qualifies you to attend AA meetings free on the NHS.

When it came to being X-rayed, the foot had to be flat, so I got to sit on a bed with my knees up and my injured appendage beneath the laser machine of diagnosis. The radiographer gave me some form of heavy blanket to position between my legs, which was slightly unnerving. Presumably it prevents nasty X-ray beams from attacking my sensitive parts and stopping me from having children. I would have thought that protecting my head might have been equally important, not least in allowing me to make that choice for myself, but no blanket was forthcoming.

When the X-ray was done, I was directed into the area marked ‘Minors’. This seemed preferable to being lead into the area labelled ‘Majors’. I was shown to a cubicle and told that there was nothing they could do for me, basically because there was nothing wrong with me. Whilst here I was induced to ponder that age old question ‘What is a shin?’. Is it bone? Is it hard tissue? Why is it so hard? What does it do? Answers on a postcard please.

'Sports' Stores

This is one I wrote last year for sports stores after a particularly disappointing expedition to search for a pair of shorts.

 

Dear Sports Megastores,

I would be grateful if you could let me know if any of you stock any sports equipment or clothing. It appears from recent visits that, despite filling an entire warehouse full of stuff, none of it has any sporting use. Since you now seem to be a ‘chav clothing megastore’, might I suggest removing the word sport from your name? And it would probably be right to remove the ‘mega’ as well, before trading standards get hold of you. ‘Chav store’ seems to be entirely appropriate. A couple of tips for you:

1. Given that you house all this stuff in a giant warehouse, you could leave enough room between the endless displays of XXL tracksuits for people to walk. Note that the XXL people you cater for are even less likely than me to fit between the rows.

2. You seem to be well staffed with apparently ‘sporty’ teenage assistants (did they misread the application as ‘spotty’?), who all seem to be equally busy arranging pairs of trainers, but none of whom seem to know much about sport. Presumably they smoke themselves thin?

3. You have eight tills and one person serving. Why do you have so many tills? Why not use some of this space for sports equipment?

4. Who needs a pair of laces that are 2m long?! Or is it a belt for the XXL tracksuit?

From now on I shall resort to searching online for sports equipment and clothing. It seems ironic that people who actually do exercise should remain seated at their computers to shop, whilst rotund chavs are forced to visit your store to find clothes.

Yours sincerely

The Field Good Factor

As some of you know, I have a pretty awesome job. I am paid to watch birds. Yes there is paperwork, management, health and safety and long hours, but I am paid to watch birds. Every now and then I have a day in the field which reminds me how lucky I am. Sometimes that's just down to a fine day, a good tune, a particular sighting or a lucky photo. This week I had one of those days, and I thought I should share it with you. In part that's because I wanted to do a post with some photos, and partly it's because I'm aware how many posts I've made that rant or rave or in some way expose my own or others' shortcomings. I thought it was time for some positivity, so here it is!




These two guys caused me much amusement recently. They were so caught up in battling each other that they failed to notice me entirely. I've seen this quite a lot, and an old farmer once told me that he had walked right up to a pair and grabbed them as they were so intent on damaging one another they totally ignored him.

 

These boring brown birds are corn buntings. Wiltshire is a great place to see them despite the fact that they are declining massively across the country. They have a call that sounds like a bunch of keys being jangled, and are called the fat bird of the barley due to their chubby nature. The name 'bunting' actually translates as 'plump', and in Orkney they are know as 'skitter-broltie', which means 'one who shits on the braithes' (the ropes that hold a corn stack together).

 

 

This bright chappy is a close relation of the corn buntings, a yellowhammer. The males are canary yellow in spring, and can be seen sitting atop bushes and posts singing their 'little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese' song.

 

  

These little chubsters are grey or 'English' partridge. They are another Wiltshire speciality and also declining across the UK. More often you will come across the red-legged or 'French' partridge, and so it's still a pleasure to see these beautiful birds. This is the first time I've been able to photograph them, and this fine couple were out for an evening stroll together.

  

 





This little stunner is a whinchat. This can be easily confused with our resident stonechats, but the whinchat is a summer migrant and have recently been arriving with us. There are good numbers on Salisbury Plain, and regular surveys keep track of them.

 

 

These tasty looking treats are great bustards. They've been reintroduced to Salisbury Plain after a long absence - the last bustard was shot in the UK in 1832! They're on the Wiltshire crest and you can go and see them by visiting the great bustard project (click here for the website). This is the world's heaviest flying bird and probably the only bird that could turn a 12 bird roast into a 13 bird roast!

 

 

This small falcon is a hobby. It's another migrant, and the bird sniffing it's feet is actually feeding on the wing having caught a dragonfly. The latin name for the hobby is falco subbuteo, and many of you will know it from the childhood football game of the same name. The chap who invented it wanted to name it after his favourite bird, but that was rejected so he used the latin name instead!

 

Finally I thought I would add in a collection of other shots from recent tough days in the office, starting with a red kite - one of many in the area thanks to successful reintroduction programmes.

 

 

  

It's a great pleasure being out on the Plain. There are plenty of deer up there and the silhouette is another corn bunting singing in the half light. 

 

The light has been fantastic lately with the contrast between the bright sunshine and dark, menacing cloud.

 

 

If you want to experience any of this for yourself there are lots of public rights of way available, but please heed the guidance from the MoD - often stark warnings about being blown up if you touch anything and reminding you to stick to the tracks!

Finally, I thought I would leave you with a lapwing standing on a pheasant's head. Who doesn't want to see that?!

 

 

 

 



 



Technofear Part 4

Having successfully negotiated a phone upgrade, I eagerly awaited the arrival of my new handset. On the allotted day a small box arrived with all the necessary kit packaged super-efficiently into the smallest imaginable space, and I pulled the bits out one by one. Having located the phone, assorted paperwork and cabling, I searched in vain for a SIM card. I had been told to expect a SIM card, but none appeared from the tiny box. In fact I had been told to expect a micro SIM card, and I wondered briefly if it was so micro that I had simply overlooked it. This was not the case. I even thought about mutilating my existing SIM card to turn it into a micro SIM, but that seemed like an unlikely solution. So I was forced to call customer services again and report my complete dearth of SIM card. Of course then I had to return to the store to pick one up, but this did at least have the advantage of allowing me to prove my technological idiocy by getting the bloke in the shop to set everything up for me. With a working phone I finally felt empowered again, and I decided that I should find out what it was capable of. It is supposed to be ‘intuitive’, but I am clearly lacking intuition. Navigation was slow, several accidental calls were made, and when I received my first incoming call I hung up on the caller. Twice.

After apologising in text, I downloaded the manual to find out how to use my phone as a phone. I assumed that ‘How to answer a call’ would be pretty much page 1 of the manual, but this was occupied by information on how to download apps. I waded through further irrelevant instructions on how to edit movies, translate texts into Swahili, and program my handset to recognise my voice, but nothing on how to answer a call. Finally I found it, buried deep within a section on adjusting widgets. I’m carrying around a mini-computer. It’s probably only a matter of time before McAfee tells me it’s at risk.

Malta Massacre

I like to keep my blog light-hearted with a deft sprinkling of melancholy where possible, but on this occasion I'm going to have to be blunt.

I've been watching, as many others I know have, Chris Packham's short videos about hunting of migratory birds on Malta. It's hard to describe it and do it justice without the video, so I strongly recommend you click here to watch them for yourselves. Hunting certain species of birds at certain times of year is illegal, but sadly a whole load of protected species get blasted from the skies as they pass through Malta each year. These birds include many that would reach the UK and provide millions of people with enjoyment each spring. Several of these birds, including the beautiful and unbelievably rare Montagu Harrier, are things that I have worked with personally. I have seen first hand the huge amounts of time, money and effort that dedicated people put into conserving these birds in the UK, only for them to face the threat of death at the hands of Maltese hunters. Worse still, most people on Malta oppose this, but the hunters intimidate them and often have connections to the Maltese police that prevents prosecutions, whilst their connections to the government prevent the issue from being dealt with in parliament.

If you have ever enjoyed seeing your first swallow in spring, or seeing migrant birds breeding in the UK, or are simply disappointed that a nation within the European Union is allowed to ignore legislation so blatantly, then please click on this link; watch the videos for yourself; donate to the campaign; write to your MEP to express your disgust. 

Muchos appreciatum est.  

Self-mowing

I was taking a quiet country stroll today when I came across the gadget of the century. A toy that men up and down the country can only dream of: the self-mower. This fully automated pair of clippers on wheels drives itself like a lumbering beetle up and down a lawn, entirely without the aid of human interference, turning periodically when it meets an obstacle. At this point, after a brief lull where it is presumably pondering its next move, it spins around and lumbers back in a different direction.

I was not able to observe this technological wizardry long enough to find the answers to all of my questions. And it does pose quite a few:

1. Does it know where it’s already been? Or could it simply run up and down over the same section until there was no grass left whatsoever?

2. Does it produce neat geometric mowing patterns or a totally shambolic series of cross-hatch patterns of varying length grass?

3. Could you program it to create a series of winding footpaths in an otherwise lush meadow?

4. Is there a sit on version? Probably for children as a sit on version for adults would render the automation pointless.

5. Could you tie a lead to it and encourage it to exercise a dog?

6. Where do the clippings go?

7. Is there a miniature version that could be employed to clip people’s hair, creating a race of skinheads?

Since my folks had a large garden when I was growing up, and it was deemed appropriate for me to spend many a wasted afternoon trying unsuccessfully to start the ancient petrol mower and trudge up and down until I had created a bowling green, I now retain a deep dislike for mowing. I always wanted a sit on machine, but that would have been an extravagance even in our garden. Bit this seems like the appropriate extravagance to cure all my mowing woes.

Here's the American version!