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.