The customer is always trite

I have, in the past, been known to write posts based around two of my favourite topics: technology and customer service. Today I was offered the best of both worlds, and so I can combine my two passions into one post.

I was in the office attempting to print when the printer made one of those noises that you recognise as being the precursor to bad news. Not a mechanical fail noise, but one of the inbuilt notification noises that announces, with a kind of cheery disposition, that something is not right. Further investigation revealed that the printer was out of ink, and specifically black ink. I had not heard any form of warning noise to suggest that ink levels were of concern, and so the sudden cessation of printing rights was something of a shock.

The printer refused to print any documents until such time as a new printer had been installed. Having removed the offending cartridge, the printer told me, via the tiny screen of news, that I should switch off the printer until the cartridge was replaced, in order to prevent any damage to the machine. I did as instructed, and hit the off switch, only for another notification to reveal that I should, under no circumstances switch off the printer without a cartridge in case of damage to the machine. This seemed something of a catch 22 to me, but in the end I had to reinstall the empty cartridge to combat the problem. The printer, of course, took great delight in beeping again to notify me that the cartridge was empty and that it needed replacing before it would resume normal printing duties.

Without a spare cartridge in the office, I made my way later in the day to PC World (presumably one of the less successful theme park names in existence) where I found rows upon rows of printer cartridges laid out for me to select from. Having foreseen this exact circumstance, I was able to produce the number and type of cartridge for the store assistant, and locate the replacement instantly. By sheer good fortune, the cartridge I wanted was available on a buy one get one half price deal.

Arriving at the till to claim my discount, I was asked whether this was a business expense, and whether I would be requiring a VAT receipt. I said it was, and that I was.  For some reason, this necessitated a move away from the main checkout to a desk with a computer and a chair. I have no idea why, but I had to register various work details with the receipt man before he could print a VAT receipt for me. This has never occurred to me when attempting to procure a receipt previously, and the process took far longer than was necessary, with him having to type and retype my name, scan the print cartridge multiple times, and wait for the printer to kick into action. How ironic it would have been if his printer had, at that very moment, run out of ink.

After an eternity had passed, receipt man was finally able to give me the receipt, which consisted of at least two pieces of printed A4 paper confirming my details, and several till receipts. To contain all paperwork in one place, receipt man searched, in vain, for a stapler at the desk with the computer. Realising that there was not one present, he made his way to the main checkout, where he did indeed locate a stapler. Receipt man then took at least four attempts to staple the paperwork together, as someone had vandalised the stapler so that it produced a chewed hole in the paper with sharp staple ends sticking out. 

Finally my stapled paperwork was complete and I was free to go, but in one final desperate act of inefficiency I set off the alarm when leaving the store, because receipt man had failed to notice the protection tag on the packaging. I think at this point he sensed my utter loathing for everything that he stood for, as he waved me through without even bothering to check if I had stashed another 16 cartridges in my pockets. Had I done so it would have been the world's longest and most painful shoplifting experience ever.   

When I'm cleaning windows

I have, in the past, written about my peculiar fondness for window cleaning. If you missed that particular gem, you can find it here. At that time, I was living in a shared house and the window cleaning was arranged by my landlady. Now my own landlord, I have the great pleasure of arranging my own window cleaning, and it seemed by far the easiest option to engage the services of the existing window cleaner. Having agreed terms and conditions, the window cleaner now arrives periodically without warning.

And so it was a few days ago. I awoke as usual to my alarm, but as I was regaining consciousness another, unexpected noise greeted me. The window cleaner was at the front of the house hurling soapy suds at the glass and scrubbing ruthlessly. I arose to the sound of the window cleaner washing the bedroom windows. I decided to leave him to it, and strolled down the hall to the bathroom. As I arrived there, the window cleaner also arrived. He had relocated to the back of the house, and was now furiously beating the bathroom window as I carried out my ablutions. After this was complete, I drifted downstairs to get breakfast. Arriving in the kitchen, I was again met with the window cleaner going about his business, and as I moved into the utility he followed me there too. 

Whilst I recognise the coincidental nature of the window cleaner's movements and mine, I couldn't help but wonder whether he was doing it deliberately. I considered whether he times his rounds to coincide with sleepy workers clambering out of bed. I don't suppose it was personal, but in my dopey state I couldn't help but curse his every move. My increasingly shiny windows were of little comfort for my disrupted morning routine. And after he had left and I had managed to prepare myself for the day ahead, the final nail in the coffin was an envelope left in the letter box demanding payment for the morning's interruptions!  

All White on the Night

In the course of writing this blog I may have mentioned, once or twice, my love of natural history. I've studied it, I worked with it, and my hobbies are largely based around it. During the course of my studies I've learned more about the eminent men and women who have advanced our understanding of nature in the UK and abroad - academics, scientists, explorers, and the many, many people working in conservation around the globe today. If I told you to name the most influential, who would you go for? David Attenborough? Charles Darwin? How about Gilbert White? Did anyone mention Gilbert White?! Ten gold stars if you did.

Gilbert White is broadly acknowledged to be the UK's first natural historian, discussing ideas like migration and species identification before Darwin was even born. White made observations of the natural world around him, writing his thoughts down and corresponding with others on his musings (the equivalent of a blog!). These letters were published as 'The Natural History of Selborne', detailing his findings in his home village of Selborne in Hampshire (and available free on kindle for anyone bold enough to tackle it!). Selborne still stands, as does the vicarage that White lived in - now converted to a museum in his honour (and, incidentally, also a museum in honour of Captain Lawrence Oates, one of those who made the fateful journey to the South Pole with Scott).

 

White's original manuscript

And so it was to Selborne that I went for a couple of days break, in order to see the place where the great man lived and walked. At his house, his vegetable gardens are still in place and the library is stocked with hundreds of versions of his book from around the world, including the original manuscript. It was pleasing to imagine White sat at his desk, with views out over his gardens into the woods beyond, pondering such questions as whether swallows migrate or spend the winter hibernating in the mud at the bottom of ponds. Whilst that may seem obvious today, global travel had not yet opened up the possibility of finding our migrants in other countries, and there certainly wasn't any sophisticated tracking technology available.

The house and vegetable garden

The village is nestled at the base of Selborne Hill, up which Gilbert and his brother constructed a zig-zag footpath to the top, giving fantastic views of his house and the surrounding area. The autumn colours made the uphill slog well worth it. As I strolled around his gardens a peregrine falcon drifted overhead and circled against white clouds before a few powerful flaps of its wings propelled it from sight. What would Gilbert have thought of the bird? Did he know that this is the world's fastest animal, capable of speeds of 200mph? I doubt it!

The view over Selborne

The fact that we know so much about the world around us today is by no means attributable to Gilbert White, but he was the first observer of ecology to publish his observations in a way that allowed others to examine them further, and from such work comes greater scientific understanding. And for that we should be grateful to Gilbert and a small band of amateur natural history enthusiasts.

Autumnal apple and ladybird in the gardens

Count me in!

I’ve been told that there are only three types of people in this world: those that can count, and those that can’t. For those that can’t, the numbers game can be something of mystery, or even a painful experience. But for those that can (and those that can’t!), numbers form the basis of most of the measurements by which we judge our lives. They represent targets, achievements and goals, they provide a benchmark against which we strive to improve or compete, and mark the passing of time to give context to those achievements.

So it is in conservation and birding. We count birds; whether to determine population trends over time or simply for competition with others or ourselves. We count numbers of individuals, breeding pairs, numbers of species, fledged young, and we do this repeatedly to assess the health or otherwise of a particular habitat or location, and then to see what happens in that place over time.

One particular place where this has been happening lately is the Isles of Scilly. The archipelago is a group of over 100 islands (depending on the tide) located 28 miles off the tip of Cornwall, with a permanent population of around 2,200 people. For the last nine years I have been privileged enough to visit the islands each autumn to lead guided walks for the RSPB on Tresco, one of the five inhabited islands. The purpose of the visit is to raise awareness of the work the RSPB are doing on the islands for wildlife, and success is largely judged on numbers: how many people we meet, how many walks we do, how much money we raise, how many members we make. But these numbers don’t tell the whole story here. Other numbers have started to become more important.

Storm clouds off Bryher

Back in 2013, a partnership project involving five different organisations began, with the aim of improving the productivity of breeding seabirds around the islands. About 20,000 individuals from 14 different species of seabird come to the Isles of Scilly to breed each year, but populations of most of them have been doing badly due to predation of eggs and chicks by rats. The Isles of Scilly Seabird Recovery Project aims to remove rats from St Agnes and Gugh, two of the most important seabird nesting areas, and started doing so in autumn 2013. The 84 inhabitants of the islands all signed letters of support for the proposal, and baiting began. Over just six weeks all signs of rats disappeared, and no rats have been seen since!

A survey tunnel

The knock on impact of this work was seen in 2014, when surveys revealed manx shearwater chicks on St Agnes and Gugh surviving to fledging – 10 of them in fact. And in 2015 there were 28 of them. This may seem like small fry, but this is where numbers come in. Not a single manx shearwater chick had been recorded by anyone on those islands in living memory. None. That’s zero productivity over perhaps 100 years. And now there are at least 28 chicks leaving the islands for a life at sea. Even better, storm petrel chicks have been confirmed in 2015 – the first for many years.

A Manx Shearwater chick

Conservation projects are rarely so successful so quickly, and we can only assess how well they are performing using data – without a baseline we would have nothing to compare to, and without rigorous, consistent survey techniques we would not be able to draw reliable conclusions. The Isles of Scilly Seabird Recovery Project is a fantastic example of what can be achieved through partnership working and community support, and of course an excellent example of how numbers have shown that success. Let’s just hope the surveyors were not among the five out of every four people who have problems with fractions.

Mothtastic!

Somehow it's been months since I posted anything on here. There's a lot of catching up to do! Alas I'm only just recovering from a busy summer of work and weddings, more of which I'm sure will feature in due course. For now I'm mostly treading water, but I've come up for air long enough to write a brief post.

This last few weeks the sun has disappeared all too quickly in the evenings. As a result the floodlights have been a vital ingredient for hockey training, and the bright lights have been attracting insects, and the insects have been attracting bats. For any bat detectorists out there I might suggest spending an evening by the astroturf taking a peek for yourselves.

Last Tuesday, whilst I was supposed to be coaching, I noticed a large moth struggling to get airborne. It was huge, and dropped to the ground on the edge of the pitch, where I managed to locate it. Being an amateur naturalist I have some appreciation of our larger moths, but this didn't look like anything I had encountered before. It had cryptic upper wings designed for camouflage, but beneath them revealed a blue, purple and black set of bands across the underwing. I had a good look at it, but failed to take a photo and thought little more of it.

The following day I tried to look it up. I wondered if it was a hawkmoth, due to it's large size, but most hawkmoths are quite striking and have bold patterns and wing shapes. So I wondered about an underwing, having recently seen a lot of red underwings. This one had the usual camouflage on the top wings but no bright warning colours beneath. When I searched 'underwing' on google I scrolled down until an image burst out at me. I have no copyright to show you the image, but it was exactly as I recalled from the night before.

To my amazement and great satisfaction, it identified the moth as a 'blue underwing'. I have never heard of this before, so I delved further. The blue underwing is also known as Clifden Nonpareil, and it turns out to be something of a superstar in the moth world (lepidopterland?). Many a moth-er (not mother) has Cliften Nonpareil at the top of their wish list, it transpires. This is, in part, due to it's rarity. It is not resident in the UK and so the handful that turn up each year are all immigrants. It is also due to it's uniqueness - almost no British moths have blue on them!

Armed with this information, I began to doubt myself. I asked a naturalist colleague whether there were any similar species that I should look at in case I had misidentified it. His response was 'None whatsoever, la la la la la didn't happen you B*stard', which gave me some indication of it's appeal to those in the know. I contacted the Wiltshire moth recorder, and sheepishly suggested that I might have a probable record of a Cliften Nonpareil, and could he give me his advice. When he replied he said it was 'unmistakably so', and what a fine record it was too. There have, apparently, been a few recent records of them in the county, and in several other counties.

I strongly suggest you all look up this little beauty. It is a truly stunning beast, unlike anything else on the UK moth scene. And you never know when you might just come across one yourself!

P.S. One week later I saw the moth again at training, and this time managed to catch it and take a photo!

The Perfect Storm

Did anyone else thoroughly enjoy the storms overnight last night? Not only did they bring welcome relief from the stifling heat, and even brief respite from the worst affects of hay fever, but it was one of the most spectacular storms I can recall. I'm sure in my youth I saw some pretty spectacular storms, but I genuinely can't remember the last time I saw such astonishing forked lightning.

I think I was about seven or eight, and I was staying with my grandparents in Torquay. Waking up in the night to the rumbles of thunder, my sister and I crept downstairs to the living room, where there were two comfortable recliners sitting in a giant wall length window at one end of the room. We turned the seats to face outwards, and were treated to half an hour of horizontal forked lightning that spread from one side of the window to the other like a giant widescreen light display. The fork would actually spread over several seconds, snaking and splitting its way in every direction like the boughs of a tree in winter. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it before or since.

So last night I had just gone to bed when I noticed flickering lights in the bathroom. Fearing a suspect bulb or an alien invasion I went to investigate. Realising they were coming from outside, I opened the window to see what crazy Friday night activity was lighting up the sky. The flashes were so frequent that I assumed they had to be created by man in some way. But the sky illuminated in the same way as lightning, and soon the thunder started to rumble ominously in the distance. Very quickly the fork lightning started, and I realised it was heading my way.

I've always wanted to try to photograph a storm like this, so I tried to think through all the equipment I would need and where it was. With all the lights off to enjoy the storm at it's best, dressed in just my boxer shorts and in a sleepy frame of mind, the next five minutes was an awkward series of bumping into walls, stubbing toes and expletives as I searched the house. I grabbed my camera and two lenses, a tripod and a head torch and made my way back to the bathroom.

Standing in the bath with the window open fully I had the full expanse of sky at my disposal. Electing to use a wide angle to maximise my chances of capturing something, I found the longest exposure I could and fired. From this I could gain an idea of where the houses and the focus were, and adjust each shot accordingly. The first few shots actually turned out to be the best.

After a few minutes the cloud and rain came in and obscured the best of the lightning. At this point the whole sky was lit up with each flash and exposure became an issue as it was impossible to judge how much light would actually reach the sensor over the 15-30 second shutter release.

As the storm intensified the rain became too much and was starting to come in through the window, so I relocated to the bedroom on the other side of the house and watched the monsoon pass. Great torrents of water were flowing down the road and pavement too, so that each passing car was spraying a wave onto the roadside. The storm continued overhead, and protected from the prevailing wind I was able to get some more photos from the front window. This time the challenge was the street lights, which overexposed the houses opposite but failed to capture the best of the light in the sky. It did throw up some interesting light trails from the passing cars, and at one point a fire engine went through the shot.

Overall the shots were not as spectacular as the storm itself, but they were never likely to be and as a first attempt I'm not too disappointed. What a fantastic display of pyrotechnics. The storm took over an hour to pass entirely, and from what I hear continued north exciting a similar response from people across the country.

Musical musings

I have an iPod. On my iPod there are 9036 songs from a variety of genres. From time to time I pick up my iPod and can't decide what to listen to. Its clearly not lack of choice. Usually I scroll through a few artists and then settle into one of the same half dozen latest albums that I always listen to. 

Not so today. Today my indecision lead me to select my entire song collection and hit the random button. So far I've moved seamlessly between Richard Ashcroft (of the Verve), the Corrs, a live Counting Crows number, the dulcet tones of Ben Folds Five, and I'm currently listening to some smooth jazz from Miles Davis.

A personal highlight for me was the brief interlude of birdsong that punctuated the Corrs and Counting Crows (appropriately). I have several bird song snippets on my iPod, and when they emerge by chance I like to play 'guess the artist' as I would with any other track. This one was a skylark.

What radio station plays such an eclectic mix of tunes in such close proximity? I'm not a huge fan of radio-too much chat, not enough music-but I would happily listen to a show that could switch from pop to classical, leap between rock & blues, interspersed with a sprinkling of jazz, heavy metal, dance & electronica, all finished off with a topping of ethnic, traditional & folk. I might urge them to go easy on anything that verges on R&B, rap or house (except Backstreet's 'No Diggity' of course).

If variety be the spice of life, play on (player)!

Mr Wind

I was reminded recently of an excellent advert I saw some time ago, featuring Mr Wind. It's nothing sinister, just an excellent point about renewable energy well made. It's so good in fact that I thought I would share it with you all.

Click here to enjoy!

Human Nature

I love what I do, largely because I do what I love. I've always enjoyed the great outdoors and been fascinated by wildlife, so I'm very fortunate (or massively skilful) to have a job that allows me to indulge in these passions. And sometimes I can forget what passions they are because it is, after all, still a job. But today I was suddenly struck by a few instances in this last week that remind me of those passions all over again.

Firstly, I had friends to visit with their young children. They are a very active and outdoorsy sort of family, and they encourage and nurture their children's inquisitiveness. We went out for a drive on Salisbury Plain, and stopped in a small area of grassland to go for a walk. We barely made it 50 yards from the truck as the kids were fascinated by literally everything. Each new creepy crawly deserved attention, each new butterfly was followed, and a rabbit hole was the perfect size to poke a brave face into. Young and eager eyes soaked up the novelty of it all, and revelled in it.

Family fun!

Secondly, I camped out on Saturday night with a friend. For one night, the phone was switched off, there was no music except the breeze, and no traffic, no lights and nothing to do except soak up the natural environment around us. At dusk, two foraging badgers, without realising we were stood there silently watching, strolled confidently to within ten paces of us, looked up, sniffed, and pottered off into the bushes. The sun went down and the stars came out, and in the night an owl shrieked and a stone-curlew called eerily to it's mate as it flew overhead: somehow a more intense and meaningful experience for the darkness.

A badger from a previous encounter

Thirdly, I saw a friend of mine, who also works in conservation, post a picture of a mum teaching her daughter about plants in a beautiful meadow. My friend's job is to educate people about grasslands such as this, and yet she spoke passionately about the importance and significance of this moment in the young girl's life. This was not because she was paid for it - she genuinely believed in the power of nature and people.

Picture stolen from my friend

Fourthly (is that a word?!), on a bright evening at the end of a day off, I sat in the garden with my housemate having a beer and enjoying the opportunity to discover what my small patch of back yard held. There were swifts screaming overhead, a blue tit dropped through the tree towards the seed feeders, and then we noticed a huge moth attempting to disguise itself against the fencing. And then a second of the same type. A quick peek in the ID book confirmed it was an eyed hawkmoth - a magnificent beast with bright blue spots on hidden underwings to ward off potential predators. Despite my many years of investigating nature, I can not recall ever having seen one of these before, despite it's apparently common status as a garden species.

Eyed Hawkmoth

Finally, I spoke to two of my colleagues who were working on Sunday at an 'Open Farm Sunday' event, representing the RSPB and the work of the local farmers for members of the public. Both said that on a beautiful sunny day they shared stories and experiences of nature with families, young and old, and had discussions about conservation and current contentious issues. Afterwards they went to a known site for turtle dove and were lucky enough to see one singing. This stunning species has undergone a massive decline in the UK and it is no exaggeration to say that they could go extinct in this country in the coming decade. And so my colleagues were delighted to see this one bird, a genuinely rare sighting these days, at the end of a day filled with people and nature.

The RSPB 'engaging' the public!

And that is the thought that occurred to me late on a Monday evening. All of these things are things that come to me through my passions, and through my job, yet none of them was 'work'. The boundaries of work and life have become so totally blurred that I can not put one down and pick the other up. I'm always 'working' in one sense, because I choose to live my life this way, and because I enjoy it.

The second thing that occurred to me was that all of my natural history highlights this week have been connected to people. Whilst I moan about and deride people as the cause of many environmental problems, they are also the most likely solution, and these cases give me cause for optimism. Yes they were all moments in nature, but they were shared moments, and for that they are all the more memorable.

Having your cake and eating it...

So last week was my sister's birthday. On the big day, I managed to remember to call to wish her a great many happy returns (I won't say how many), and asked how the day had been. Aside from the joys of work, she had had decided to pop into a cake shop in order to procure sweet treats to take to work. On entering said delicatessen, she was amused to hear Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday' playing in the store, but was even more amazed when the shop assistant randomly asked her if it was her birthday. Having replied in the affirmative, a momentary game of 'no way', 'yes way' ensued until the shop assistant called over a colleague to verify this astounding coincidence - having never once asked a customer that question before, she refused to believe that it could possible be true. My sister was duly able to provide evidence in the form of a driver's license, whereupon the three of them danced around the store to Stevie Wonder. Finally, at the end of the song, they gave her free cake.

What a truly bizarre and wonderful coming together of circumstance.

Time for Action

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about red kites and why their recovery gives me hope in a world where conservation good news stories are few and far between. Working in conservation can be a depressing career when you hear more and more news about another species decline, another precious habitat lost, another stark climate change prediction. It's why I work in the industry:  I value nature and I do what little I can to redress that balance. But I've always tried not to include the bad stuff on the blog. It is supposed to be a light-hearted and irreverent commentary on the mundane and banal features of everyday life. I don't want to depress you, dear reader, nor do I wish to preach at you. Yet lately I have been inundated with so much negativity, ignorance, hypocrisy and sheer incompetence that I feel the time is right to bring it to your attention. I thought twice about doing so, but decided that the issues I am about to outline are only issues until enough people speak out against them. So please read on and decide for yourself whether I am simply letting off steam, or whether either of these issues deserve your attention, and better still your action.

1. The Nature Directives

The Nature Directives are currently under review by a European Commission that is challenging regulation – meaning our most important laws for wildlife are under unprecedented threat.

The Directives provide essential protection to our rarest and most threatened species, and safeguard the best habitats for supporting a diversity of life in the UK and across much of Europe. They drive the fundamental aspects of conservation in the most important places – from managing sites and protecting them from development, to protecting species from human persecution.

Without them, we are simply fighting to stop loss and damage to our most precious wildlife sites. With them, we are able to work with others to restore nature – to create a world richer in nature.

The Directives aren’t perfect, but if we’re to restore nature in the UK and across Europe, we need them, and we need to focus on better implementation so they can achieve their full potential. Opening up the Directives in a political context that will almost certainly see them weakened would set us back years. This would be a disaster for wildlife, and for all the conscientious businesses that have learnt to follow the Directives and work in harmony with nature. Revised laws would mean a period of great uncertainty for businesses that would cost them time and money.

That's why we need a massive demonstration of public support for the Directives during the European Commission’s public consultation on the future of the Directives. The more people act, the easier it will be to convince EU leaders that the general public really care about nature and won't tolerate a weakening of its protection. To find out more, including how you can take action to defend the directives, click here. 

 

2. Raptor Persecution

 

This is an issue that has been going on for many years, and whilst I've been aware of it I've never really had any personal involvement. I am now very fortunate that a small part of my job involves working with a rare and wonderful bird of prey, the Montagu Harrier. This species is only just clinging on in the UK, with a population of less that ten pairs. Despite this, it receives much less coverage than it's relative the Hen Harrier, largely because of issues of illegal persecution. Research has shown that there is enough habitat to support about 300 pairs of hen harriers in England, and yet there are only one or two, largely due to illegal persecution.

 

Recently the RSPB came under fire from an organisation called 'You forgot the birds'. It appears that their mission is to deflect attention away from the issue of illegal raptor persecution by undermining the RSPB and the work we do. A few weeks ago news emerged that three male hen harriers had disappeared from their last English stronghold in the Forest of Bowland. It is highly unusual for a breeding bird to simply abandon eggs, and with three birds involved it seems likely that foul play is involved - so likely in fact that the police have launched an investigation. Yet 'You forgot the birds' decided that this was an RSPB witch-hunt, and launched another attack on the organisation. Apart from displaying an astounding level of ecological ignorance, it also suggests that the RSPB has a poor track record in delivering successful bird conservation - an offensive and woefully inaccurate assertion. The response from the RSPB can be seen here. Since I work for the RSPB I am obviously biased and emotionally involved, so I urge you to read the article for yourself.

 

Equally, this one is well worth a read, as it presents yet another ignorant and unfounded perspective on ecology. Yes there is a debate to be had, but one based on fact and evidence, as outlined in this reply to the article. What concerns me most is that these people, apparently in the name of journalism, are given a platform to deliver these attacks. And that by having that platform, the real issue is ignored or forgotten.

 

Whilst there is a lot of coverage of the issues surrounding hen harriers, the montagu harrier is less well known. Last year we were lucky enough to get funding to attach satellite transmitters to UK montagu harriers. These tags give us a huge insight into habitat choice, foraging areas and migration routes. Yet one of the birds did not even make it as far as migration, having disappeared on a shooting estate in Norfolk. The transmitter stopped transmitting, which means it was somehow destroyed. Make of that what you will, but as there are now even fewer montagu harrier in the UK than last year, the species is on a knife-edge. We will be fitting more satellite tags this year, but the sad truth of the matter is that they may show us more about raptor persecution than they do about migration or distribution. 

 

If you want to find out more, including how you can support the campaign to stop illegal persecution, click here.

 

So I'm sorry for the seriousness of this post, but my work over the last few weeks has involved meeting local police to discuss wildlife crime, discussions with colleagues about the likelihood of local harriers being killed, news reports of persecution from other areas, and internal briefings on how much damage would be caused by a weakened set of directives from the EU.

 

This stuff matters, and if I can play a small part in spreading the word, responding to the critics and gaining support for nature and nature conservation then I make no apology for that. If it matters to you too, please spread the word, take action, and encourage others to do so as well.

 

 

 

The Grass is Always Greener

Some time ago I wrote on here about automated lawn mowers. I mentioned my deep and long-standing hatred of mowing. Having successfully put off any form of grass management at my new house since I moved in last October, it seemed that I should probably rectify this situation before the garden became a wilderness.

My first step was to procure a mower. Fortunately my folks were visiting for bank holiday weekend and decided to treat me to a few items for the garden - a mower foremost amongst them. A visit to Homebase revealed all manner of mowing appliances, mostly electric or petrol, and unnecessarily large and expensive for my grass handkerchief. We found the one mower that required solely man power to drive it, and promptly snatched it up.

We literally snatched it up in fact, since it came in a small box. This is the first flat-pack mower I have ever seen, and my primary challenge was to construct it using the impossibly uninstructive instructions. The whole thing seemed rather flimsy compared with mowers I have met in the past, and yet it's entire raison d'etre is to cut grass, something for which excessive bulk, power or force is presumably unnecessary.

Or so I thought! Right up until I attempted to use it against my lush and nearly foot-high lawn. The first few passes were especially tough, and vaguely reminiscent of trying to run through water. After about a foot of mowing, the blades would clog up with long, thick and slightly damp grass, forcing me to stop and unclog the machine before trying again. Over time I found that a slight run up allowed me to reach two or three metres along the lawn, but the extra pace meant that barely any grass was cut and I would simply glide across the top of it. Having taken some of the thickness out, I was then more successful in future passes, with less resistance from the lawn and some of the newly shed grass even making it into the small collecting tray behind the mower.

Even so, it was not possible to mow more than a couple of yards each time before having to stop. And the machine has no reverse gear - the blades don't turn going backwards, so you have to lift the entire thing to return to where you started. Turning round is pointless as you have covered no distance to begin with and merely flattened all the grass in the direction you are travelling. And each stop requires another bend to unclog the wheels and blades from matted vegetation.

Thankfully my garden is only about the size of a post-it note, but even so I only managed to get half of it done before I gave up from exhaustion. At least it provides variation in habitat for lawn-dwelling invertebrates. Plus I now have some vegetation in my compost bin. And I'm sure the exercise will do me good.

On the other hand, it turns out I could buy a goat or sheep for about the same price as the mower, and let them get on with it!

A Laugh a Minute

There are some occasions when life takes over and in a vain attempt to juggle 16 different things you simply crash and burn in spectacular fashion. Last Saturday night we held our end of season hockey club awards night, since when I have been entirely unable to concentrate. It may have been a two-day hangover, following the heavy drinking, dancing the night away in town and lack of sleep. Whatever the cause, I have struggled to maintain coherent thought or conversation since then, and now my brain has turned to mush.

This was most evident on returning home from work. I have various things on my mind that require organising in one way, shape or form, but I thought it might be nice to edit some of Saturday's photos over dinner. When I went to serve up, I found that I had in fact failed to cook my fishcake, largely due to turning on the wrong bit of oven. In a desperate attempt to salvage some miniscule fragment of edibleness, I blasted it in the microwave, during which time I burnt my asparagus. A total culinary disaster was only averted due to the presence of some potatoes.

Whilst eating my dry asparagus and chewy fishcake, I received a message from a friend on facebook notifying me that a terrifying picture of me raised aloft has been uploaded as 'photo of the week' on the website of the very nightclub that I frequented with the hockey players on Saturday night. I have little recollection of this peculiar moment, but apparently it now qualifies me to free VIP entry and champagne in a 'roped off area' for me and eight friends if I ring the fine establishment to claim. I have no particular desire to return to said establishment, but might be tempted for the freebies, and to discover exactly what sort of 'roped off area' will be given over to us - it sounds like a crime scene.

This series of events, combined with my fragile mental state, cause me to begin a laugh that started with a chuckle and grew rapidly into full-scale hysteria. In a matter of moments I was crying with laughter and shaking uncontrollably. Maybe it's best I don't go drinking for a while.

Banana-drama

On my walk home from work today I happened upon a banana skin on the pavement. Realising the huge potential danger I was in, I neatly sidestepped the fruit peeling to avoid almost certain death should I happen to step on it and slip to my doom. I then wondered if anyone has actually ever damaged themselves in this manner. I have never actually slipped on a banana skin. I have never witnessed someone else's demise in a banana-skin related incident. Nor have I even heard of such a thing. In fact it appears that the only people ever to have suffered, emotionally or physically, through standing on a banana skin, are cartoon characters and clowns. And the only result that I can fathom from this interaction is a comedic loss of dignity. Am I to assume that, should this unfortunate coming together of foot and banana skin ever occur, the likely outcome would be me gliding 50 feet down the pavement whilst simultaneously crashing through market stalls, sending passers by flying, knocking over porcelain vases and finally crashing through a wall, leaving a perfect human outline as I go?!

No cause for alarm

The human body is an amazing piece of equipment. As a student of biology I have a reasonable understanding of some of the functionality of this kit; I've read some of the instructions. But other aspects of the human physiology remain a complete mystery to me. One of these is the body clock.

How does the body maintain it's own time system? Through most of the winter, my alarm has been set to 7:15 on work days. Yet the bulk of the time I wake up naturally at 7:14 anyway! How does the body know to pre-empt the rude awakening of the alarm? And to be so accurate about it?! I remember as a kid those sleepless nights when you knew you had to be up early for whatever reason, and then barely got a wink of sleep all night as a result. Now my body compensates and calculates the most efficient time to rise.

What confuses me even more is how, on days when I set my alarm to another time, my body somehow adjusts to this new time, and still rises from it's slumberous state a mere moment prior to the electronic noise of dawn. If I asked someone to set my alarm to a completely random time, unknown to me, would my body be fooled?!

On the occasions when I actually remain asleep until the alarm sounds, my body goes through a bizarre process of waking, vague comprehension and recollection and then understanding in just a few seconds. During this period I am able to open my eyes, roll over and turn the alarm off, and I wonder how I moved so seamlessly from one state to another. Some days the comprehension takes longer than others, and sometimes the understanding doesn't fully click in until around lunch.

When my alarm is activated, there is a mechanical click before the electronic beeping. The click sounds regardless of whether the alarm is on or off, as the clock hands pass the alarm hand. When I'm lying in bed on days when I haven't set the alarm, and I hear the click, my body goes through the same wakening process as if the alarm had gone off. It pre-empts what normally happens, and some kind of chemical reaction causes me to become alert very suddenly, as though adrenaline has been pumped into my system. Which is slightly disconcerting.

Boxing clever

Boxes: friend or foe?

Lately I had cause to question my hitherto undiminished love of boxes. Boxes create order from chaos. They collect assorted jumble and contain them in one usefully categorised location. They form squares and right angles from irregularity. They stack, they pack, and there is always a box somewhere that is exactly the right size.

Yet a box used wastefully annoys me. Why do amazon send small items in vastly oversized packages filled with paper or bubble wrap? Why not just use the right sized box? They of all people should have a selection of suitable options - they must have literally billions of boxes ready to use! I recently ordered some software that was essentially a CD, but it came in a small paper envelope, that came in a small square box, which was in a larger rectangular box, that slid out of a larger cardboard sleeve, contained within an Amazon box: four separate packages for no reason. By the time I reached the CD I felt like I had won a solo game of pass the parcel.

Also, despite having a range of boxes gainfully employed about the house, when I need another one I can never find one (perhaps due to my unnecessary fear of using the wrong size!). And I'm always sure that I know where to get one - usually the end of a supermarket checkout - but when I get there they are nowhere to be seen. Maybe I should just order small and cheap items from Amazon to get hold of the boxes. Maybe I should order a box from Amazon?!

Bedding Down

There are many great mysteries in life, but I am continually at a loss to explain perhaps the greatest of them all: the mystery of the inexplicable fluff.

Whenever I change my bedding, there it is! Great mountains of the stuff coating my duvet cover and pillow cases. You might think that this is entirely explainable, but I have no idea where it originates from. The duvet and pillows are not covered in fluff. The bed appears to be largely without it. Yet by removing one from another, myriad tiny cloud formations coat my bed linen.

It doesn't appear during the washing process - nor does it disappear. It simply clings to my laundry like a limpet; right up until I remove my washing from the machine, that is. At that point it suddenly loses its adhesive qualities, floating down onto the utility floor, the stairs, and across my bedroom. It looks like someone has bombed a cotton wool factory.

I can hoover this up, but worse is to come. Enough of it remains attached to my bedding to aggravate me. There's too much to pick it off piece by piece. The only technique that I have been able to employ that comes remotely close to removing it involves using a comb to scrape it off.

So this is how I came to be stood on my landing combing my duvet cover over the banister today, wondering what quirk of unfortunate circumstance had led me to this point, and pondering the mystery. If anyone else suffers a similar devastating occurrence I would be interested to know about it, especially if anyone has a remedy!

Time after time

I woke up feeling refreshed this morning. A quiet night in and a good sleep was much needed, and I had plenty of time to ready myself before heading to the station to get a train. I was due to meet a friend and Sunday was looking good. Then I noticed the time. My alarm clock hadn't registered, nor had my watch, but my phone was telling me it was an hour later than I thought. Panic set in, and a quick check revealed that British summer time had snuck up on me unexpectedly. A quick shower and shave and a dash to the station followed. I arrived just in time, only to find that my train was delayed by half an hour. Apparently due to signalling faults, which I assume means the driver also forgot to change his clocks.

Cold Calling

So a strange thing just happened. At 6pm on a Friday evening I get a call from an unknown number in Nottingham. Fearing an automated PPI recording, I gingerly pick up the phone to reveal an actual person, apparently calling from EON energy. She's made a good start by choosing my energy supplier, which means there's a chance she's genuine. She says she's calling to discuss my account, and asks whether she can check a couple of security questions. I have no idea why my account needs discussing, and am reluctant to answer security questions that might pass on personal details. I feel like asking her whether I can ask a few security questions, but I run with it. Having successfully proved I am who I am and where I live, she tells me that she's been reviewing my account and I am several hundred pounds in credit. She needs an up to date meter reading to prove this, and I oblige, and after several seconds of tapping on a keyboard she confirms that I am still several hundred pounds in credit. She asks whether I would like a refund of several hundred pounds and a reduction in my monthly payment. I say yes, and after several seconds of tapping on a keyboard she confirms that the refund will arrive with me in a week and that my monthly payment will be reduced by £90. This seems too good to be true.

Part of me is still wondering if I've just been robbed. Or whether somehow during this conversation she has gained important knowledge that will lead to a fraudulent attack on my account. I guess I'll know when the several hundred pound refund turns up or not.

Another part of me is wondering why I was paying such an amount to begin with if, after just a few months of living here, I have somehow accrued such a sizeable credit. How do they work it out?! Why was it so wrong? Did they assume I was a family of four? Or an elderly gentleman with a vulnerability to winter chills? Is the default setting an assumption of massive heat loss from the property?

Whatever the reason, it is potentially the best random phone call I have had in some time. I shall have to reduce my automatic cynicism in future. Unless of course I am robbed in the next week.

Time waits for no man

I sit here waiting. Waiting to meet a friend. My friend was due to pop to mine so we could head out and have lunch together. But it's now 1:45 and I'm starving.

We were only having lunch together because we failed to have morning cake together. We had arranged to meet in town late morning, but the plan was flexible due to my friend's work commitments. So I duly headed into town and sat alone for 45 minutes until I heard that my friend was no longer able to make it until lunch time.

We were only having morning cake together because we failed to have a drink together last night. We had arranged to meet in town late afternoon as my friend had an appointment. So I duly headed to town and waited at the agreed spot for 30 minutes until I heard that my friend was no longer able to get there in time to meet before the appointment.

We were only having drinks together because we had failed to meet in the office that afternoon. We had arranged to meet in the office for a catch up, but the plan was flexible as I had a meeting. When my meeting ended, I duly headed to the office to meet my friend, until I heard that my friend would not be able to get to the office before I left.

Having failed to meet in the office, we have failed to meet for drinks in town, failed to meet for cake in town, and we are now apparently failing to meet for lunch. I have made myself available at every opportunity, but still I am drinkless, cakeless and lunchless, and perhaps even friendless.

Maybe that would be no bad thing in this instance.

Capital Punishment

I was born in London but don't remember it from my childhood as we moved away before I was two. I've never had any great desire to return to live there. I don't feel any great affinity with the place, and the hustle and bustle of so many people tends to make me feel like a fish out of water. I'm just not built for that environment. But I do like returning as a visitor in small doses, for a number of reasons. Mostly because I have lots of friends who live there, but also to see the differences in way of life, people, and behaviour. Being an outsider makes it easier to observe, to comment, and yes, to judge. A recent trip gave me the chance to do all of these things.

Trains: gliding towards London courtesy of network rail we pass open fields, lush green pasture and meandering rivers. These are the places where people wave at trains. I have no idea why. I've attempted a waved return on several occasions, and am yet to forge a strong friendship with anyone as a result. I doubt they could see my salutation. In the city, where the trains slow and weave between high rise blocks of flats, stuffed full of residents, nobody waves. Surely here more than anywhere one should jump at the chance to befriend commuters and visitors alike. London has a sense of impersonal anonymity that I like and dislike in equal measure. It's totally possible to disappear into a crowd here. I like the variety, the ethnicity, the independence of the place. On the other hand, it feels like a billion tiny atoms all whizzing about invading each other's personal space and occasionally colliding.

The underground: this is a very recognisable symbol of our nations capital, a masterpiece of engineering and enterprise, tired and jaded but still chugging away under the streets like a great metallic snake pit. There's something very Hitchcockian about the fast approaching crescendo of a tube and subsequent squeal of it's brakes; the inadvertent gusts of wind that spring up and die out of nothing in the great tunnels and stairwells; the solitude of empty carriages on late nights out and the dangerous proximity of total strangers in crowded commutes. Why do the handrails on the escalators move ever so slightly faster than the stairs, so that, if you chose to lean against the handrail, the angle of your lean becomes ever more precarious until you lose your balance, falling upwards into the backside of the person ahead of you. Unless of course they are in the same predicament, in which case you all topple forward like a giant set of dominoes.

Oyster Cards: what a wonderful invention this is. A system of pre-paid ticketing that allows you to travel unhindered through the transport network, only pausing periodically to ensure you have enough credit to continue your onward journey. The problem with oyster is that if, like me, you are usually it infrequently, there's inevitably a moment at the first barrier where you suddenly realise that you have no idea how much money is on your card and you nervously tap it against the reader, hoping that you are not refused entry when half of London seems to be queued up behind you. People assume that other people are always in credit and move forwards with unnerving speed, so much so that a barrier refusal results in a huge pile up. It's like watching the riderless horse in the grand national pulling up short of the fence and running across the oncoming traffic in a sideways bit for freedom: horses, riders, handbags, attitudes and expletives are all sent flying. And the barriers do not accommodate baggage or large people. You have a mere fraction of a second to pass through, with all of your personal belongings and dignity, before the barrier closes. Any errant suitcases or umbrellas left straggling get shut into the barrier, and a grumpy attendant, who's only job can be removing stranded people from the barriers, comes shuffling over and tuts as though you had any possible alternative route. 

Business attire: having agreed to meet friends in a central location, we all converged on a small area of pubs near Green Park. It was 5:30pm, and we should have known better. The working masses were spilling out of nearby offices and streaming like flies towards the nearest watering hole. All of the pubs had well dressed clientele overflowing onto the streets outside - some with fag in hand, all with drinks, and all wearing impossibly ironed shirts and sharp cut dark suits and polished black shoes. In my mind they were talking figures, profit margins and who to sack. My jeans and brown shoes combo stood out a mile - who'd have thought I could look out of place in this most accepting of cities. But the continual stream of high heels and shiny cars and discussions of property prices put me firmly in my place. I imagine most of these people would look equally lost if I took them on a tour of Salisbury Plain: like a great herd of suited wildebeest about to cross a crocodile infested river. 

Despite my apparent unease, I actually enjoy these trips. It's great to catch up with friends, to remove myself from the antiquated charm of Salisbury, and to observe life in all of its glorious variety.  I love the pace, the scale, and the feeling that I'm constantly starring in a music video-either a 'London virgin' video that sees me gazing in wonder out of a train window as reflections of tall buildings whizz by on the glass, or a 'coming of age' teen romp in which something from the American Pie soundtrack blares out while I play Frisbee in one of the London parks with tanned mates. Ironically enough, on the way there, Third Eye Blind's 'Don't wanna go to London' came on, and on the way back it was Ed Sheeran's 'The City'.

Visiting the capital also reminds me how lucky I am. I hate the commuting and the claustrophobic dirtiness of the city. I feel captive in London, unable to stretch and breathe. But mostly I feel confused: bewildered by how everything and everyone operates in such a chaotic environment; overwhelmed by options, choices and decisions; bemused by my feelings for my birth place. I love and hate this place equally - a bipolar dichotomy of steel, glass, parks and people. London is all things: a centre, a catch up, a playhouse, an antithesis to my comfort zone, nostalgic, whirring, errant, and it continues to draw me in and spit me out exhausted at the other end. 

K is for Kite

I had a moment recently that neatly encapsulated the reasons why I do what I do. I was on a train, and during the two hour journey I spent the vast majority of the time engrossed in my kindle. And yes, I was reading a book about birds. Well, about loss and solitude and the comfort found in birds. Anyhow, I glanced up for a few seconds at one point and saw a red kite floating over Woking. For those of you familiar with red kites, and I hope that is many of you now, this sight may not be unfamiliar (at least the bird, if not the location!).

It dawned on me that this single bird in that moment represents the culmination of many years worth of conservation effort. When I was starting out on my birding trajectory, aged about eight or so, this species was on the brink of extinction in the UK. No kites bred in England, and just 20 or so pairs clung on in a part of west Wales. As a young birder heading to west Wales on a family holiday, this was the main target on my overly optimistic wish list of birds for the trip. On our last morning, despite the rain lashing down, a single kite rose up above the skyline and danced across it for just long enough for Dad to stop the car and for the whole family to experience it together. It only lasted a few seconds but in that brief time I think even the less geeky members of my immediate family shared something that we all knew was special.

Since then, concerted efforts in many locations have seen kites returned to much of the rest of the UK, with reintroduction programmes across the country. One of the earliest was in the Chilterns, and kites have now firmly established themselves in that area. Anyone who drives along the M40 will likely see a dozen or more in just a few junctions. And I hope everyone who does shares in the enjoyment of watching such an acrobatic bird twisting and turning it's way through the skies with it's massive frame and it's rudder tail.

Much as my first encounter with a red kite was brief but memorable, this latest sighting brings to mind all of the work done in the intervening period to establish this species back across our countryside. The fact that I could spot this bird when barely paying attention, above a reasonably large urban area, without making any effort at all, shows what successful conservation work can look like.

Running Wild

I saw a strange thing yesterday. I saw two joggers. That wasn't so strange in it's own right, but the fact that both of them had opted in the slightly chilly conditions to run along with their hands in their pockets made the whole experience a lot stranger. They looked like two penguins making a dash for the bus.

This confirms my long held belief that jogging is simply not an enjoyable form of exercise. Presumably they had their hands in their pockets because they were cold, in which case the jogging doesn't seem to have achieved it's major function. Certainly it did nothing to improve their jogging performance. I'm yet to see anyone in a marathon take up this particular pose to assist with aerodynamicity, speed or athletic function in any way.

I guess the appeal of jogging lies in it's simplicity. Anyone can do it without needing specialist kit, equipment or a venue, other participants or money. You can literally decide to start jogging and within a matter of seconds have achieved your aim. Unlike, say, football, where you ideally need other people, a ball, somewhere to kick it and possibly specialist shoes to do so with. To that end I get it. But where's the fun? Its not that social, it's unbearably monotonous, and I can never silence the tiny voices in my head telling me that my ankle is sore, my breathing irregular, and I should, under no circumstance, continue jogging. At least I can understand the appeal of being able to do it in some fantastic outdoor locations. I can't think of anything worse than doing it on a treadmill at the gym where I have to pay £28.50 a month for the privilege.

Perhaps I've just never been any good at jogging. Maybe, despite it's apparent ease, I'm actually rubbish at it. I've done a couple of half marathons and posted a respectable time, but I mostly did it for charity and as a personal challenge. It certainly wasn't enjoyable in the same way as a win at hockey is. I had no enthusiasm for training and I know I couldn't go as far as the marathon without some serious effort.

I have a sort of unhealthy respect for joggers like the two I saw. I applaud their determination in the face of complete idiocy. I admire the people dedicated enough to put themselves through hell on a cold wet evening just because they need to do some exercise. And I even recognise that some of us enjoy team sports, where instinct takes over, while others prefer a strategy or plan and the opportunity to escape into your own mental solitude. But if you're really not enjoying it at all, I would suggest stopping and looking up other alternative ways to keep fit. Don't 'just do it' for the sake of it.

Who moved my cheese?

I was very disappointed earlier this week to open my lunch only to find that I had failed to put anything in my wholemeal bread roll. I had, just a day before, prepared some egg mayo with the weekly lunches in mind. That morning, I had remembered to take out a roll for lunch. I had remembered to butter it. But I failed to remember to add the egg mayo.

I know how it happened. I wanted to use the knife to butter something else before it had egg mayo on it. Having done so, I obviously assumed that my work was done and promptly packed up my egg mayo-less roll into my lunchbox. Once it was there, the thought did not cross my mind until the inevitable moment of realisation that occurred as I lifted the wholemeal bread roll to my anticipating mouth.

A sizeable wave of disappointment washed over me. An egg mayo-less roll is not the worst lunch, but having bothered to prepare the egg mayo and with my mind expectant, I was struck by melancholy. My next thought was to wonder whether I had any other foodstuffs contained in my lunchbox that would improve an otherwise relatively dry wholemeal bread roll consumption. My only option was grapes. A grape sandwich, it turns out, is not that bad. In fact it is a definite improvement on relatively dry bread roll. It doesn't quite match up to egg mayo, but in the circumstances I was pleased with the outcome.

It crossed my mind that this monumental fail may have been the result of my increasing age and my corresponding lack of mental agility. Perhaps it was just one of those early morning dopey moments we all get from time to time, like when you accidentally pour apple juice onto your cereal instead of into a glass. Like in the wholemeal-bread-roll-egg-mayo conundrum outlined above, this is not the end of the world - indeed it makes quite a refreshing change - but when nursing a sleepy brain incapable of contemplating change and with the expectation of milk, it turns it into the precursor for a terrible day.

To avoid this situation from recurring, I am going to embrace change. I will celebrate getting lost as it allows me to investigate hitherto undiscovered locations. I will relish trialling new taste combinations, if only to rule them out as possible future lunchbox components. I will say yes to last minute dinner plans even though I need to use up a carrot that definitely won't last another day. I will accept Plan B even though it means I won't be able to get the washing on as planned. And I will do all of this even though I know that inwardly I will still be tormented by these ludicrous decisions.

Overthinking

I've lately been struck by a strange realisation. By lately I literally mean over the last half an hour. I logged in to Facebook as I often do. By scrolling down through the news feed I was able to pick out the latest updates from various friends and acquaintances, some close, others less so.

First of all I watched a dog push a cat into a bath. Then I read about the passing of someone's brother. Then I read about the birth of someone's twins. Then I watched a paper aeroplane hit a footballer in the head.  

Now I sit here stunned by the tragic, the exciting, the utterly banal and the completely hilarious and have absolutely no idea what emotion dominates me. My sadness for someone's loss is tempered by my excitement for someone else's gain. I am not fatalistic, I don't believe that there is a higher purpose, or that we are all part of a wider plan. But if you ever wanted a snapshot of life and death in the 21st century perhaps this is it: sandwiched inconsequentially between camera-phone video moments.

And despite my emotionally confused state, all of them were celebrations in one way or another. Nobody posted nasty comments or insults. Everyone laughed, cried, supported and congratulated in equal measure. Maybe 'social' could be the right word for it after all.

A Winter's Tale

In these dark days of winter one has to do what one can to keep warm. When the icy chill permeates to your bones it can take a long time to recover. Having moved into a reasonably cold house just in time to experience the long winter nights, I have been reminded of when I lived in a stone-walled cottage in Cornwall which was generally colder inside than out. People actually used to put coats on when entering the building. It had no central heating and the log fire was eventually condemned as unsafe for use. Ice would occasionally form on the insides of the windows. Anyone who has found themselves in similar conditions will likely have shared some of the following experiences:

1. You heat the room that you are spending most of your time in, just by being in there, wrapping yourself in blankets, eating there etc. But you probably don't sleep there, so when it comes to going to bed you have to start the process all over again.

2. Electric blankets, hot water bottles and/or fan heaters are essential.

3. When you go to bed, the sheets are cold, so you have to warm them up with a few minutes of 'cycling' - a process where you lie on your side, rotating all of your limbs in an attempt to generate enough friction between you and the sheets to cause warmth.

4. When you wake up, you feel warm and snug, but by moving a mere centimetre in any direction you expose yourself to extreme cold, and have to lie rigid inside your body's outline until you muster the strength to get up.

5. When you do get up you have to run to the bathroom and jump into a hot shower to give you temporary relief.

6. This is fact makes it far worse when you get out of the shower, as you are now cold and wet, and can't put clothes on until you are dry. This process happens in front of the fan heater.

7. Your clothes are also cold so you either take them to bed with you to warm them through the night, or you hold them in front of the fan heater to heat them up. In some cases, hot air from the heater can be directed through the garment to ensure that it is warm on the inside when put on.

I recounted one or two of these instances to some friends, and there was a completely different response from my British friends, who understood exactly what I was on about, and my foreign friends, who presumably have only experienced mild European winters. Or perhaps they have sensibly lived in warm houses with central heating and effective boilers.

I suspect in summer I will complain about it being too hot.