Having been away from home for quite a while over the middle of summer, I was fully expecting handwritten notes all over my post when I got home, requesting that I do some urgent pruning if I wanted to keep getting letters delivered; oddly, this hadn't happened - I think we may have a different postman - but a combination of a lot of rain followed by sunshine had resulted in the garden looking more like a jungle, and the honeysuckle rampaging wildly all over the window.
Inside, it was like the Twilight Zone. The living room was more a living gloom, with nary a ray of sunlight penetrating the foliage. Think 'Sleeping Beauty's castle'....
After a week in the dark - I mean, is it normal to need to put the light on at nine in the morning in summer? - I decided that the time had come to do some chopping back, bees and scented flowers notwithstanding. Of course, as soon as I made the decision, it rained, and the entire thing became a dripping, sodden mass.
Job postponed.
This morning, with the sun shining and having made an early start anyway to take the car in to the garage for much-needed attention, the task of 'hunt the window' could be put off no longer. Secateurs in hand, I made a start, and was soon covered in twiggy bits, leaves and the occasional snail. The more I chopped into the overgrowth, the more snails I found, clinging to the undersides of leaves or swarming up tendrils. When I reached the window at last, I discovered that I had been demolishing a veritable snail hotel, as small reproachful eyestalks peered at me from the corners of the frame. Several of them slithered off into darker corners, in an obvious huff.
Standing in a mound of chopped-off foliage, I figured I'd upset them enough for now, and started to gather it up to put it in the bin. A snail waved at me from the bundle in my hands... so now I had to go through the whole pile and extract the residents.
Now, the bin is full, and there is light in the living room again.
But the snails are not happy with me.
Showing posts with label random silliness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random silliness. Show all posts
Monday, 20 August 2012
Friday, 17 August 2012
SUTS Wars
At first, I thought it was something to do with the hall floor being a hard surface. Whenever Mum went out of the living room, there was a louder step, almost as if she was stamping on the floor. Then I became aware that there was also a pause associated with it, something deliberate. I didn't say anything...
'I suppose you're wondering why I stamp on the floor when I go into the hall,' she said one night.
'It had occurred to me.'
'It's the spider.'
'Spider.'
'Under the stairs.'
'There's a Spider Under The Stairs.'
'Yes, in the hall cupboard. It lurks there, and sneaks out when it thinks I'm not looking. So I stamp at it every time I go out and it goes back under the stairs.'
'Ah. What's the spider done to you?'
'It's lurking. With intent.'
This seemed a little harsh to me.
So I've called it Suts, and speak nicely to it whenever I pass by.
Karmic balance, and all that.
'I suppose you're wondering why I stamp on the floor when I go into the hall,' she said one night.
'It had occurred to me.'
'It's the spider.'
'Spider.'
'Under the stairs.'
'There's a Spider Under The Stairs.'
'Yes, in the hall cupboard. It lurks there, and sneaks out when it thinks I'm not looking. So I stamp at it every time I go out and it goes back under the stairs.'
'Ah. What's the spider done to you?'
'It's lurking. With intent.'
This seemed a little harsh to me.
So I've called it Suts, and speak nicely to it whenever I pass by.
Karmic balance, and all that.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Litter and Lobsters
The weather has been - to say the least - changeable recently, with places that ten days ago had four inches of snow now basking in temperatures in the high 20s...yesterday we had the same temperature here in the north-east corner of Scotland as in Darwin, Australia.
Which meant that, for once, our spring beach clean-up wasn't a total washout! Eight valiant volunteers, armed with litter-pickers and rubbish bags, set about doing a wee bit of tidying up at Fraserburgh. I was in charge of refreshments, explaining what we were doing to the bemused general public, and recording all the various items found : in two and a half hours, we got at least 990 individual items, including 13 disposable barbecues. Two-thirds of what was collected was 'visitor related' rubbish (i.e. not thrown-overboard/fishing waste/sewage-related...you get the idea).
It was also a great opportunity for a spot of people watching... The sudden shock of the sunshine must go straight to the brains of folks up here, immediately disabling all thoughts of sensible clothing and sunscreen - the skimmed-milk skin of the average punter is immediately exposed to the UV rays to the greatest extent possible. Which results in a preponderance of lobster-pinkness as the pallid flesh is rapidly grilled to the broiling-point. I found myself wincing at the thought of how they would feel tomorrow, and slightly self-satisfied that I had blathered on the new Factor 30, half-price and supposedly with a 'golden sheen'. Being of a pallid persuasion, I need all the help I can get.
Crowds (well, in our terms "crowds" - at least 100 people!) made their way to the beach, with all the accoutremonts of the British holidaymaker - windbreaks, buckets and spades, frisbees and beach games tumbling out of overpacked bags, trolley-loads of beer and barbecue equipment (I feel our clean-up efforts will be un-noticeable by tomorrow morning), and over-excited children. There was a background soundtrack of screams as said children ran into the sea, to suddenly halt as the water reached a critical level and yelp 'IT'S COLD!!!!' before running back to the beach, where their doting parents pointed them back at the water to repeat the exercise. They breed them tough up here. This is the North Sea, after all, and it's only May.
The cafe did a roaring trade. An idiot on a jet ski roared from one end of the bay to the other. Offshore, the crab boats went about their business, followed by hopeful gulls. Soggy, sandy, barefoot children trailed after harrassed parents back to the car park.
I recorded the next sheet of findings on the laptop, looked at my arms to check I wasn't burning and made a Horrible Discovery.
Far from a 'golden sheen,' the damn sunscreen makes your skin sparkle. I mean, really glitter. Like disco gel. Like a freakin' cut-price vampire.... I retreated into the deep shade of the van, and prayed for clouds....
Which meant that, for once, our spring beach clean-up wasn't a total washout! Eight valiant volunteers, armed with litter-pickers and rubbish bags, set about doing a wee bit of tidying up at Fraserburgh. I was in charge of refreshments, explaining what we were doing to the bemused general public, and recording all the various items found : in two and a half hours, we got at least 990 individual items, including 13 disposable barbecues. Two-thirds of what was collected was 'visitor related' rubbish (i.e. not thrown-overboard/fishing waste/sewage-related...you get the idea).
It was also a great opportunity for a spot of people watching... The sudden shock of the sunshine must go straight to the brains of folks up here, immediately disabling all thoughts of sensible clothing and sunscreen - the skimmed-milk skin of the average punter is immediately exposed to the UV rays to the greatest extent possible. Which results in a preponderance of lobster-pinkness as the pallid flesh is rapidly grilled to the broiling-point. I found myself wincing at the thought of how they would feel tomorrow, and slightly self-satisfied that I had blathered on the new Factor 30, half-price and supposedly with a 'golden sheen'. Being of a pallid persuasion, I need all the help I can get.
Crowds (well, in our terms "crowds" - at least 100 people!) made their way to the beach, with all the accoutremonts of the British holidaymaker - windbreaks, buckets and spades, frisbees and beach games tumbling out of overpacked bags, trolley-loads of beer and barbecue equipment (I feel our clean-up efforts will be un-noticeable by tomorrow morning), and over-excited children. There was a background soundtrack of screams as said children ran into the sea, to suddenly halt as the water reached a critical level and yelp 'IT'S COLD!!!!' before running back to the beach, where their doting parents pointed them back at the water to repeat the exercise. They breed them tough up here. This is the North Sea, after all, and it's only May.
The cafe did a roaring trade. An idiot on a jet ski roared from one end of the bay to the other. Offshore, the crab boats went about their business, followed by hopeful gulls. Soggy, sandy, barefoot children trailed after harrassed parents back to the car park.
I recorded the next sheet of findings on the laptop, looked at my arms to check I wasn't burning and made a Horrible Discovery.
Far from a 'golden sheen,' the damn sunscreen makes your skin sparkle. I mean, really glitter. Like disco gel. Like a freakin' cut-price vampire.... I retreated into the deep shade of the van, and prayed for clouds....
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Slow Boat on a Bonus
Day Fifteen: 17 July (Bonus Day One) Braunston to Yelvertoft.
Originally, we'd have been handing the boat over at the time I'm writing this, but thanks to AW we're in Braunston Marina, and the Shore Party have gone to the gift shop! It's locks today - and of course, after a blue and shiny start to the day, it's clouding over and the wind's getting up, just in time for us to do the getting-out-of-marina manoueuvre.
Thoughts on the naming of boats... they seem to fall into several clear categories.
: - the Name-Combo - either the names of the kids/grandkids (Brittany Lauren) or the owners (Philjean)
: - the Traditional - three types, the 'work ethic' (Valiant, Warrior, Stalwart) and the floral (Gypsy Rose, Daisy) - or traditional girls' names like Martha and Ruby.
: - The Alternative Lifestyle - Chillin', Far from the Madding Crowd, Second Chance... these sometimes spill over into...
: - The Quirky - 'The Kid's Inheritance', 'Piston Broke' ...it goes on!
Hire boats tend to have their own set - either class (Jupiter is 'Planet' class), yard - for example the 'Valley' boats, or the Viking ones which have Nordic names. Canaltime seem to be the most random, almost as if they've had a competition to name the boats - 'Wilsons Chaos' springs to mind!
We're moored next to 'Moriarty' at the moment, which I think comes under Quirky....
Shore party returned triumphant with books, postcards and a couple of gorgeous brass miners' lamps, and we made an elegant departure to meet our time slot of 1000.
Up the Braunston Flight, mostly in company with 'Daisy' - an old traditional boat which has wheels to control steering and engine. One of the locks had a cascade running over it ('short pound' said the Daisy skipper). We let them run ahead at Top Lock, and followed then through Braunston Tunnel (2042 yards) - very uneven, and with some interesting features - air vents casting pools of light, an odd side-vent, a pipe feeding water in a stream into the canal, reflections and shadows from the boat lights. Quite spooky and strange, but not claustrophobic. As we finally came towards the tunnel's end, we could see movement - turned out to be a bat (probably Daubentons) hunting the last 50 yards of the tunnel. As we got nearer, it flew up onto the tunnel wall and hung there until we were halfway past, before letting go and zipping past our heads - light through the part-translucence of the wing membranes - to go back into the depths of the tunnel.
Out into the light in a green cutting, and on across Braunston summit to Norton Junction. Kingfisher whizzed past, a flash of orange and electric blue (Mum was looking in the right direction for once, but still failed to see it despite my strangled squeak!) Tied up for lunch, then, after being battered by wake-wash for a while, went on to the Watford Staircase. Now we're officially back in the north - Watford Gap Services are just a little way beyond the fence. The lock keeper is in charge here, so we waited in the queue, some boats up, some down before we can go up; with any luck we'd get through before the locks shut for the night at 1900. Drew went off to take photos.
...well, that was an experience! A few hiccups further up were caused by an Important Personage who had a table booked for dinner in Braunston and thought He could start organising traffic- the lock keeper soon disabused him, and set him back up and out! We got through last one up (to His disgust, as we'd been there 10 minutes later than Him), and headed for Crick.
Crick Tunnel (1528 yards) is wet. Very drippy, lots of flowstone. Crick is full of marinas, and consequently full of boats, so we pushed on to overnight at Yelvertoft, opposite where they're creating yet another new marina - the whole area will be one big marina soon.
13 locks/13.5 miles/2 tunnels/Grand Union Canal, GUC Leicester Branch
Day Sixteen: 18 July (Bonus Day Two) Yelvertoft to Welford.
A short day, across green farmland (sounds of peacocks amidst hanging willows) and a kingfisher that Mum DID manage to see this time!
Went up the Welford Arm to the highest point of the GUC system - designed to bring water from the reservoirs to feed the canals. One small lock to go through (3 foot 6 inches), but a very odd set-up, with a narrow section almost like a half-lock before a 'pseudo-pound' and then the lock itself. It's a leafy backwater, with a lot of boats moored up the arm into the village. We turned at the marked winding hole and moored by the marina entrance - Drew went to investigate and found a few spaces higher up and another turning point - too late!
As we started the tedium of packing, a pair of familiar trousers went past - Matt the Engineer, and his dog Woody; he stopped to see how we'd got on, and have a chat. Drew caught up with him later at the pub (he lives in the village) and bought him a beer or two; he also ran into Jane from the yard, who gave us a late pass to return the boat in the morning!
1 lock/11 miles/GUC Leicester Branch, GUC Welford Arm
Day Seventeen: 19 July (Last Day) Welford to North Kilworth.
Up and sorting by 0800, and heading for the yard by 0900, to return the boat at a reasonable time. One last, small lock (number 103 for the trip).
Down to Welford Junction whilst cleaning sinks and sweeping floors, and the last three-quarters of a mile to North Kilworth, touching the wharf to tie up as the last breadloaf went into the crate. Unloaded reluctantly, chatted to Jane and Matt, and packed the car. The day turned hot and sunny as we drove home, not conducive to making the transition from 3-4 mph to 70 mph up the motorway
It's done, for this year.
1 lock/3 miles/0 tunnels/GUC Welford Arm, GUC Leicester Branch
I'll end with the usual collection of boat-and-bank dogs!
There's a Googlemap of where we went here.
Originally, we'd have been handing the boat over at the time I'm writing this, but thanks to AW we're in Braunston Marina, and the Shore Party have gone to the gift shop! It's locks today - and of course, after a blue and shiny start to the day, it's clouding over and the wind's getting up, just in time for us to do the getting-out-of-marina manoueuvre.
Thoughts on the naming of boats... they seem to fall into several clear categories.
: - the Name-Combo - either the names of the kids/grandkids (Brittany Lauren) or the owners (Philjean)
: - the Traditional - three types, the 'work ethic' (Valiant, Warrior, Stalwart) and the floral (Gypsy Rose, Daisy) - or traditional girls' names like Martha and Ruby.
: - The Alternative Lifestyle - Chillin', Far from the Madding Crowd, Second Chance... these sometimes spill over into...
: - The Quirky - 'The Kid's Inheritance', 'Piston Broke' ...it goes on!
Hire boats tend to have their own set - either class (Jupiter is 'Planet' class), yard - for example the 'Valley' boats, or the Viking ones which have Nordic names. Canaltime seem to be the most random, almost as if they've had a competition to name the boats - 'Wilsons Chaos' springs to mind!
Shore party returned triumphant with books, postcards and a couple of gorgeous brass miners' lamps, and we made an elegant departure to meet our time slot of 1000.
Up the Braunston Flight, mostly in company with 'Daisy' - an old traditional boat which has wheels to control steering and engine. One of the locks had a cascade running over it ('short pound' said the Daisy skipper). We let them run ahead at Top Lock, and followed then through Braunston Tunnel (2042 yards) - very uneven, and with some interesting features - air vents casting pools of light, an odd side-vent, a pipe feeding water in a stream into the canal, reflections and shadows from the boat lights. Quite spooky and strange, but not claustrophobic. As we finally came towards the tunnel's end, we could see movement - turned out to be a bat (probably Daubentons) hunting the last 50 yards of the tunnel. As we got nearer, it flew up onto the tunnel wall and hung there until we were halfway past, before letting go and zipping past our heads - light through the part-translucence of the wing membranes - to go back into the depths of the tunnel.
Out into the light in a green cutting, and on across Braunston summit to Norton Junction. Kingfisher whizzed past, a flash of orange and electric blue (Mum was looking in the right direction for once, but still failed to see it despite my strangled squeak!) Tied up for lunch, then, after being battered by wake-wash for a while, went on to the Watford Staircase. Now we're officially back in the north - Watford Gap Services are just a little way beyond the fence. The lock keeper is in charge here, so we waited in the queue, some boats up, some down before we can go up; with any luck we'd get through before the locks shut for the night at 1900. Drew went off to take photos.
...well, that was an experience! A few hiccups further up were caused by an Important Personage who had a table booked for dinner in Braunston and thought He could start organising traffic- the lock keeper soon disabused him, and set him back up and out! We got through last one up (to His disgust, as we'd been there 10 minutes later than Him), and headed for Crick.
Crick Tunnel (1528 yards) is wet. Very drippy, lots of flowstone. Crick is full of marinas, and consequently full of boats, so we pushed on to overnight at Yelvertoft, opposite where they're creating yet another new marina - the whole area will be one big marina soon.
13 locks/13.5 miles/2 tunnels/Grand Union Canal, GUC Leicester Branch
Day Sixteen: 18 July (Bonus Day Two) Yelvertoft to Welford.
A short day, across green farmland (sounds of peacocks amidst hanging willows) and a kingfisher that Mum DID manage to see this time!
Went up the Welford Arm to the highest point of the GUC system - designed to bring water from the reservoirs to feed the canals. One small lock to go through (3 foot 6 inches), but a very odd set-up, with a narrow section almost like a half-lock before a 'pseudo-pound' and then the lock itself. It's a leafy backwater, with a lot of boats moored up the arm into the village. We turned at the marked winding hole and moored by the marina entrance - Drew went to investigate and found a few spaces higher up and another turning point - too late!
As we started the tedium of packing, a pair of familiar trousers went past - Matt the Engineer, and his dog Woody; he stopped to see how we'd got on, and have a chat. Drew caught up with him later at the pub (he lives in the village) and bought him a beer or two; he also ran into Jane from the yard, who gave us a late pass to return the boat in the morning!
1 lock/11 miles/GUC Leicester Branch, GUC Welford Arm
Day Seventeen: 19 July (Last Day) Welford to North Kilworth.
Up and sorting by 0800, and heading for the yard by 0900, to return the boat at a reasonable time. One last, small lock (number 103 for the trip).
Down to Welford Junction whilst cleaning sinks and sweeping floors, and the last three-quarters of a mile to North Kilworth, touching the wharf to tie up as the last breadloaf went into the crate. Unloaded reluctantly, chatted to Jane and Matt, and packed the car. The day turned hot and sunny as we drove home, not conducive to making the transition from 3-4 mph to 70 mph up the motorway
It's done, for this year.
1 lock/3 miles/0 tunnels/GUC Welford Arm, GUC Leicester Branch
I'll end with the usual collection of boat-and-bank dogs!
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Random Thoughts from the Festive Season...
Afflicted with cabin fever over Xmas and New Year, I have spent an inordinate time in the companyof the haunted goldfish tank, aka the TV. And the inevitable hoardes of adverts.
Which set me to thinking...what would any passing alien make of Earth, if this was what they picked up (and given the tedious repetition of much of it, it's probably more likely that they'd pick up the uncomfortable mix of Can-can and Heavy metal that was Why Mums Go to Iceland than something more intellectual).
In the run up to Xmas, the TV was populated by an inordinate number of sulky girls and moody men, wearing pouts that left them a hair's breadth short of becoming goldfish, glowering at each other, getting it on in lifts (and did the one who broke her Diamond necklace on behalf of Armani have to wait in line until the Beckhams finished?) or spilling flammable liquid across the floor and rolling about in it.
Obviously all this heavy breathing wore them out, one way or another, as the post Xmas schedules centred around replacing beds and sofas. Our passing aliens might wonder why these primitive Earthlings spent so much money in December, when the prices of nearly everything were immediately cut afterwards; why, they might ask, do they not do the Xmas thing at the end of January, when the sales have happened?
Wandering aimlessly through the supermarket (oh, how we spend our days!) another thing caught my eye. Seasonally-scented air fresheners/candles/electronic gizmos. Apart from wondering idly why anyone would want these things in the first place (they make me sneeze, for a start. Open a window, for goodnesss sake!) the sheer variety of 'scents' was astonishing. And in such combinations! Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cranberry and holly. Cotton and mulberry. Soft cashmere and vanilla... hang on a minute. Cashmere? Doesn't cashmere come from goats?
Can anyone explain why I would want my festivities seasoned with goat scented ice-cream?
Which set me to thinking...what would any passing alien make of Earth, if this was what they picked up (and given the tedious repetition of much of it, it's probably more likely that they'd pick up the uncomfortable mix of Can-can and Heavy metal that was Why Mums Go to Iceland than something more intellectual).
In the run up to Xmas, the TV was populated by an inordinate number of sulky girls and moody men, wearing pouts that left them a hair's breadth short of becoming goldfish, glowering at each other, getting it on in lifts (and did the one who broke her Diamond necklace on behalf of Armani have to wait in line until the Beckhams finished?) or spilling flammable liquid across the floor and rolling about in it.
Obviously all this heavy breathing wore them out, one way or another, as the post Xmas schedules centred around replacing beds and sofas. Our passing aliens might wonder why these primitive Earthlings spent so much money in December, when the prices of nearly everything were immediately cut afterwards; why, they might ask, do they not do the Xmas thing at the end of January, when the sales have happened?
Wandering aimlessly through the supermarket (oh, how we spend our days!) another thing caught my eye. Seasonally-scented air fresheners/candles/electronic gizmos. Apart from wondering idly why anyone would want these things in the first place (they make me sneeze, for a start. Open a window, for goodnesss sake!) the sheer variety of 'scents' was astonishing. And in such combinations! Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cranberry and holly. Cotton and mulberry. Soft cashmere and vanilla... hang on a minute. Cashmere? Doesn't cashmere come from goats?
Can anyone explain why I would want my festivities seasoned with goat scented ice-cream?
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Bloomin' Knitwit!
I don't do domestic.
I say this for the start, in case someone gets the wrong idea.
When I used to cook for the Scout troop, they reckoned that my middle L stood for Lucretia. I was asked to leave Domestic Science at school; the teacher refused to teach me. I made a pair of pyjamas with both sleeves and both legs set in backwards.
Later, I made ball-gowns from scratch, building them like engineering projects. They were pretty good - mind you, I need engineering rather than dressmaking, being on a larger scale.....I learned to knit out of bloody-mindedness.
Now, being a bit arthritic, I need to keep my joints warm, otherwise I grind to a horrible stop. I've found the ideal thing for my wrists and knuckles - "mitten-thingies".
These are basically tubular with a hole for the thumb, simple, practical and effective. A friend and I discussed how they might be knitted. Seemed simple.
Can you see the flaws yet?
So I was at Mum's place, and needing to do something... she has plenty of spare wool from old Fair Isle sweaters. Ideal!
I acquired wool and round needles. These make life incredibly simple by allowing you to just knit on and on and on round and round.
I cast on 76 stitches, and knitted.
After a couple of rounds, I realised things were not going quite to plan... somewhere in joining up the threads, I'd managed to turn the thing, and had now managed to knit the beginnings of a wonderful Moebius glove.
Stop. Unravel. Knit back. Start again.
Cast on 76 stitches and knit three successful rounds. Try the thing against my wrist. Hmmmmmm. Too big.
Unravel. Start again. Discover that 76 stitches is the minimum the round needle will hold. Ah. Too big.
Oh hell. I need to try to do this with 4 needles. How much do I REALLY want to do this?
Come on. It's just wool and stuff. How fearsome can it be? It's not french seams, or white sauce, for heaven's sake!
So here we go. I reckon 50 stitches. Cast on. Ok.
K2P2 for about 15 rows (I'm knitting stripes, so about 3 rows per colour at this point).
AUGH!! How the heck do you shift from one needle to another? After a while it becomes clear, and I decide I need to knit at least 4 stitches on from the previous 'changeover' each round, in order to prevent holes at the corners. Yes. I think I'm smart, huh? Smart is not having the left needle stuck up your right nostril...
So here I am, knitting with 4 needles for the first time. It is not going well.
For a start, my eyes want to focus on the needle I have just deserted and which is waving around loosely under my nose. and threatening to insert itself in that same organ. I need to focus on the business end of the thing, not being one who can watch TV and knit at the same time - I need to see what the needles are doing, as they are inclined to do random stuff if I take my attention off them. There is also another needle waving about errantly, likely to get stuck in my ear, or my jumper. Do NOT wear knitted jumper whilst knitting. Everything ends up stuck in the stitches...or your underwear.... I am knitting with 2 active needles and have 2 'hangers-on', most of the time. My decision to carry stitches forward means that sometimes I only have 3 needles in play. The spare I stick in my mouth, as a convenient place.
The only trouble is, I tend to forget the needle in my gob. If I'm not talking to Mum, particularly. If I am, it's still likely to get overlooked, our conversation being of the muffled kind. Which means that - on occasion - I'm likely to end up with all the knitting on two needles, and a problem turning the corners.....
And so it progresses. Knit one, purl one, slip one, drop one, scream as half the last 10 stitches fall off the needle, change colour, discover a new stitch where one has failed to slide the stitch last time round, count the stitches and find an extra 4, cast off extra 4, knit another round, discover one is 3 stitches under target....
The whole thing is a bloody mystery to me. It's a women's thing, and despite gender, I just don't get it. I knit the bloody thing, and end up with a tube of the right size and shape, finally cast off the k1p1 top end (see, I do know technical!) and then... oh shit. I have to do another one the same. Including the bit early on where it all went inside out and the knit became purl and I ended up with an inside out bit, which I thought I'd wound back but when I knitted the next couple of rounds I found there was still a reverse row there..augh....And the bits where I missed stitches and will have to tie them in again. Gods, why did I start this???
They're pretty, though, and they're warm. Mum's modelling them here...
I am not designed for domesticity.
I say this for the start, in case someone gets the wrong idea.
When I used to cook for the Scout troop, they reckoned that my middle L stood for Lucretia. I was asked to leave Domestic Science at school; the teacher refused to teach me. I made a pair of pyjamas with both sleeves and both legs set in backwards.
Later, I made ball-gowns from scratch, building them like engineering projects. They were pretty good - mind you, I need engineering rather than dressmaking, being on a larger scale.....I learned to knit out of bloody-mindedness.
Now, being a bit arthritic, I need to keep my joints warm, otherwise I grind to a horrible stop. I've found the ideal thing for my wrists and knuckles - "mitten-thingies".
These are basically tubular with a hole for the thumb, simple, practical and effective. A friend and I discussed how they might be knitted. Seemed simple.
Can you see the flaws yet?
So I was at Mum's place, and needing to do something... she has plenty of spare wool from old Fair Isle sweaters. Ideal!
I acquired wool and round needles. These make life incredibly simple by allowing you to just knit on and on and on round and round.
I cast on 76 stitches, and knitted.
After a couple of rounds, I realised things were not going quite to plan... somewhere in joining up the threads, I'd managed to turn the thing, and had now managed to knit the beginnings of a wonderful Moebius glove.
Stop. Unravel. Knit back. Start again.
Cast on 76 stitches and knit three successful rounds. Try the thing against my wrist. Hmmmmmm. Too big.
Unravel. Start again. Discover that 76 stitches is the minimum the round needle will hold. Ah. Too big.
Oh hell. I need to try to do this with 4 needles. How much do I REALLY want to do this?
Come on. It's just wool and stuff. How fearsome can it be? It's not french seams, or white sauce, for heaven's sake!
So here we go. I reckon 50 stitches. Cast on. Ok.
K2P2 for about 15 rows (I'm knitting stripes, so about 3 rows per colour at this point).
AUGH!! How the heck do you shift from one needle to another? After a while it becomes clear, and I decide I need to knit at least 4 stitches on from the previous 'changeover' each round, in order to prevent holes at the corners. Yes. I think I'm smart, huh? Smart is not having the left needle stuck up your right nostril...
So here I am, knitting with 4 needles for the first time. It is not going well.
For a start, my eyes want to focus on the needle I have just deserted and which is waving around loosely under my nose. and threatening to insert itself in that same organ. I need to focus on the business end of the thing, not being one who can watch TV and knit at the same time - I need to see what the needles are doing, as they are inclined to do random stuff if I take my attention off them. There is also another needle waving about errantly, likely to get stuck in my ear, or my jumper. Do NOT wear knitted jumper whilst knitting. Everything ends up stuck in the stitches...or your underwear.... I am knitting with 2 active needles and have 2 'hangers-on', most of the time. My decision to carry stitches forward means that sometimes I only have 3 needles in play. The spare I stick in my mouth, as a convenient place.
The only trouble is, I tend to forget the needle in my gob. If I'm not talking to Mum, particularly. If I am, it's still likely to get overlooked, our conversation being of the muffled kind. Which means that - on occasion - I'm likely to end up with all the knitting on two needles, and a problem turning the corners.....
And so it progresses. Knit one, purl one, slip one, drop one, scream as half the last 10 stitches fall off the needle, change colour, discover a new stitch where one has failed to slide the stitch last time round, count the stitches and find an extra 4, cast off extra 4, knit another round, discover one is 3 stitches under target....
The whole thing is a bloody mystery to me. It's a women's thing, and despite gender, I just don't get it. I knit the bloody thing, and end up with a tube of the right size and shape, finally cast off the k1p1 top end (see, I do know technical!) and then... oh shit. I have to do another one the same. Including the bit early on where it all went inside out and the knit became purl and I ended up with an inside out bit, which I thought I'd wound back but when I knitted the next couple of rounds I found there was still a reverse row there..augh....And the bits where I missed stitches and will have to tie them in again. Gods, why did I start this???
They're pretty, though, and they're warm. Mum's modelling them here...
I am not designed for domesticity.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
the Rules of Yellow
because there are rules - trying to keep things a wee bit scientific here, folks!
1. You have to be travelling. On the bus, in a car, in a traffic jam. Watching out of the window doesn't count (Mum, I'm looking at you! The yellow car you can see out of the back window doesn't count!)You need to be on a journey.
2. Parked cars only count once. If you see a parked car - and you can count dealerships - you can count it, but if you pass the same car again on the way back, you can't count it.
3. You can't count cars/vans which are wearing yellow as livery. (This is where lorries are left out) If a van/car is yellow because (for example) it belongs to the Council, it doesn't count. Plain yellow vans with lights on the roof don't count. If it looks as if it is yellow as a matter of happenstance, it's OK.
Taxis which are yellow do count, as long as it isn't the entire fleet - look and ye shall learn!
4. Gold doesn't count - it's metallic beige. If you see a metallic yellow, you will know!
Happy hunting!
1. You have to be travelling. On the bus, in a car, in a traffic jam. Watching out of the window doesn't count (Mum, I'm looking at you! The yellow car you can see out of the back window doesn't count!)You need to be on a journey.
2. Parked cars only count once. If you see a parked car - and you can count dealerships - you can count it, but if you pass the same car again on the way back, you can't count it.
3. You can't count cars/vans which are wearing yellow as livery. (This is where lorries are left out) If a van/car is yellow because (for example) it belongs to the Council, it doesn't count. Plain yellow vans with lights on the roof don't count. If it looks as if it is yellow as a matter of happenstance, it's OK.
Taxis which are yellow do count, as long as it isn't the entire fleet - look and ye shall learn!
4. Gold doesn't count - it's metallic beige. If you see a metallic yellow, you will know!
Happy hunting!
Saturday, 6 December 2008
I Am Curious about Yellow...
Cars, that is...
OK. It began when I was heading south, and being bored, started to count 'Unsuitably Coloured Cars' as a diversion. Well they are out there... puke green, blood stain red, deep bruise purple (the last branded as 'Envy' - dear gods, what colour do they paint the adultery version??) And in the midst of things came the yellow cars.
So I started counting precisely how many 'orrible coloured vehicles I saw on a journey. But in doing so I became very aware of yellow. Not gold - it's just metallic beige, in most cases. (There is one variety that is metallic yellow - you know it when you see it.)There were a lot of yellow cars around - or was it just my perception? They ARE obvious, after all. And (as an aside) some are better than others... a yellow Mini is cute. A yellow Volvo looks like a travelling slab of butter. And it depends very much on the shade of yellow. A pale yellow Fiat looks OK. A saffron yellow Citroen looks ... hell, just weird. (And, as a disturbing aside, there are suddenly more orange Fords around... are the damn things ripening??)
And then I drove down to Mum's place and a wee while later, went to visit a friend in Nottingham (hi Tats!). And on the way, I counted the yellow cars. As you do... (to quote Richard Hammond).
From home to Mum - 420 miles. Yellow cars - 41. (1:10(ish))
From Mum's to Tats' - 100 miles - 20 cars. (1:5) and the traffic was MUCH busier.
Which made me wonder.
(a)Is there any correlation between traffic density and the number of yellow cars you see on the journey?
(b)Is the distribution of yellow cars significant? Do they exhibit any migratory pattern - are they urban or rural - can I find any correlation?
So I've been counting yellow cars... and (so far) it's proving interesting (although I ain't sure it's a statistically sound analysis, so don't kick me yet!).. on 'average' rural + urban roads (eg, from home to Aberdeen and back, or on my way to work - sampled over 3 months)I get an average of 1 yellow car per 10 miles. So I'm taking this as the baseline figure. Anything more means busy traffic, anything less means quiet-ish. OK, if I was being very scientific, I'd break it down to urban and rural (and I'm trying to find out how I can do that sensibly and safely - at the moment I just click a mechanical counter when I see one and check the mileage at the end of the trip..)
And so far, the (a) theory is holding up.
And there are odd features that support the (b) theory...vis:
Yellow cars are an urban species.
Yellow cars prefer daylight - ie. they are diurnal - and on the whole are more commonly seen when the weather is warm.
Yellow cars are biassed towards the East coast. (Have they migrated in from the Continent?)
Yellow cars are - on the whole - clean... I've only seen one dirty one in six months.
The study continues - made more difficult by the onset of early dark - with sodium lighting, it becomes harder to pick out definite yellows - but I'm still recording cars seen per miles (visible).
And once in a while, you get a perfect 'yellow car moment'... at a roundabout in Aberdeen, I saw a primrose-yellow small Peugeot approach a roundabout. From the opposite direction came an identical primrose-yellow Peugeot. They hit the roundabout at the same precise moment, and passing, exited from opposite roads. Synchronised yellow.
Bliss!
I'll keep you posted...
OK. It began when I was heading south, and being bored, started to count 'Unsuitably Coloured Cars' as a diversion. Well they are out there... puke green, blood stain red, deep bruise purple (the last branded as 'Envy' - dear gods, what colour do they paint the adultery version??) And in the midst of things came the yellow cars.
So I started counting precisely how many 'orrible coloured vehicles I saw on a journey. But in doing so I became very aware of yellow. Not gold - it's just metallic beige, in most cases. (There is one variety that is metallic yellow - you know it when you see it.)There were a lot of yellow cars around - or was it just my perception? They ARE obvious, after all. And (as an aside) some are better than others... a yellow Mini is cute. A yellow Volvo looks like a travelling slab of butter. And it depends very much on the shade of yellow. A pale yellow Fiat looks OK. A saffron yellow Citroen looks ... hell, just weird. (And, as a disturbing aside, there are suddenly more orange Fords around... are the damn things ripening??)
And then I drove down to Mum's place and a wee while later, went to visit a friend in Nottingham (hi Tats!). And on the way, I counted the yellow cars. As you do... (to quote Richard Hammond).
From home to Mum - 420 miles. Yellow cars - 41. (1:10(ish))
From Mum's to Tats' - 100 miles - 20 cars. (1:5) and the traffic was MUCH busier.
Which made me wonder.
(a)Is there any correlation between traffic density and the number of yellow cars you see on the journey?
(b)Is the distribution of yellow cars significant? Do they exhibit any migratory pattern - are they urban or rural - can I find any correlation?
So I've been counting yellow cars... and (so far) it's proving interesting (although I ain't sure it's a statistically sound analysis, so don't kick me yet!).. on 'average' rural + urban roads (eg, from home to Aberdeen and back, or on my way to work - sampled over 3 months)I get an average of 1 yellow car per 10 miles. So I'm taking this as the baseline figure. Anything more means busy traffic, anything less means quiet-ish. OK, if I was being very scientific, I'd break it down to urban and rural (and I'm trying to find out how I can do that sensibly and safely - at the moment I just click a mechanical counter when I see one and check the mileage at the end of the trip..)
And so far, the (a) theory is holding up.
And there are odd features that support the (b) theory...vis:
Yellow cars are an urban species.
Yellow cars prefer daylight - ie. they are diurnal - and on the whole are more commonly seen when the weather is warm.
Yellow cars are biassed towards the East coast. (Have they migrated in from the Continent?)
Yellow cars are - on the whole - clean... I've only seen one dirty one in six months.
The study continues - made more difficult by the onset of early dark - with sodium lighting, it becomes harder to pick out definite yellows - but I'm still recording cars seen per miles (visible).
And once in a while, you get a perfect 'yellow car moment'... at a roundabout in Aberdeen, I saw a primrose-yellow small Peugeot approach a roundabout. From the opposite direction came an identical primrose-yellow Peugeot. They hit the roundabout at the same precise moment, and passing, exited from opposite roads. Synchronised yellow.
Bliss!
I'll keep you posted...
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Web Rage
So I’m sat in the car outside the chip shop, waiting for Mum to emerge with our supper, when I notice that, stretched between the wing mirror and the side of the window of my door, are two spiderwebs, one slung behind the other as if to catch prey if the first breaks. Ingenious, I think. A rather rotund spider is wandering about on the one nearest the car, checking for midgies; it finds one, and hastens back into the left side of the recess behind the mirror to have its own supper.
Halfway along the top, a pair of wee spindly legs pokes out, and a much smaller spider emerges, very hesitantly. It steps out onto the second web, exploring. Well, that explains the ‘double web’ I think.
Suddenly, from the right hand side of the mirror, another larger spider rushes out onto the web. Obviously, the small spider’s footsteps have set the web thrumming, alerting the other to the presence of Something For Tea. Small spider freezes at the sight of the bigger one, which advances slowly and menacingly. I begin to think there will be carnage…
Smallest spider makes a dash for the top of the mirror.
Bigger spider goes in pursuit, and it looks like it will soon catch up. I’m almost biting my nails, willing the small one to go faster. It reaches the top and with true spidery ingenuity, flings itself off over the back, abseiling rapidly down the finest of thread to dangle six inches below the mirror, out of sight of the bigger spider. Perplexed (I don’t think the bigger spider is particularly intelligent) the latter seems to shrug, and heads back to its own side of the mirror, vanishing into the gap behind the glass.
Small spider dangles in the wind for a while, a little like Indiana Jones on the broken rope bridge, before clambering back up to the wing mirror and cautiously tiptoeing past the others to its own lurking spot.
Mum wonders why I’m chuckling.
Halfway along the top, a pair of wee spindly legs pokes out, and a much smaller spider emerges, very hesitantly. It steps out onto the second web, exploring. Well, that explains the ‘double web’ I think.
Suddenly, from the right hand side of the mirror, another larger spider rushes out onto the web. Obviously, the small spider’s footsteps have set the web thrumming, alerting the other to the presence of Something For Tea. Small spider freezes at the sight of the bigger one, which advances slowly and menacingly. I begin to think there will be carnage…
Smallest spider makes a dash for the top of the mirror.
Bigger spider goes in pursuit, and it looks like it will soon catch up. I’m almost biting my nails, willing the small one to go faster. It reaches the top and with true spidery ingenuity, flings itself off over the back, abseiling rapidly down the finest of thread to dangle six inches below the mirror, out of sight of the bigger spider. Perplexed (I don’t think the bigger spider is particularly intelligent) the latter seems to shrug, and heads back to its own side of the mirror, vanishing into the gap behind the glass.
Small spider dangles in the wind for a while, a little like Indiana Jones on the broken rope bridge, before clambering back up to the wing mirror and cautiously tiptoeing past the others to its own lurking spot.
Mum wonders why I’m chuckling.
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Things go better with Shell
Driving down the road to the garden centre, to buy some sticks to use in making a game about migration (don’t ask, it’d take longer than I have to explain), I had the strangest feeling I wasn’t alone. Glancing to my left, I realised there was something on the passenger-side window. Somewhere in the night, an adventurous snail had dropped out of the fuchsia bush that overhangs my garden wall and had been exploring the car. Not noticing the inquisitive wee soul, I’d set off and was happily bowling along at around 50 mph. My unexpected passenger seemed somewhat alarmed by this – no doubt it was the fastest he’d ever travelled, for although my snails are no slowcoaches (watch them head up the wall to the chimney on disco night) they lack wheels.
With another car behind me, it wasn’t possible to stop and leave the freeloader in a convenient hedgerow, so I willed him to hang on and we’d part company at the garden centre. He seemed to take heart from this, and started to explore the window, riding along with his wee feelers blowing in the breeze. Up to the top, and halfway down, sticking to the glass by sheer force of will and a sticky foot.
I tried to keep an eye on him, but after coming close to the verge a few times decided that his fate was in the lap of whatever small gods snails have, and concentrated on my driving.
We made it to the garden centre, both unscathed, and I contemplated finding a suitable flowerbed and setting him down in safety there… then I thought again. Garden Centres are not known for their friendship with those of a shelly persuasion, and in leaving him there, may well be condemning him to an early demise. After his tenacity, and plucky determination, I felt this was not something I could be party to, and suggested to him that if he was still on board when I came out of the centre, I would drop him off in the leafy haven of the lay-by just north of the village.
When I came out, he had wandered down to the wing mirror, and was making cautious investigations of the spiderwebs. (Of the spider who lives behind the mirror, there was no sign – obviously reluctant to get involved with one with so many fewer legs than herself). Well, hang on and we’ll soon have you sorted, I said, wondering if anyone was listening to me talking to my wing mirror.
There was a lorry in the lay-by, and no room to pull in behind it. Snail had climbed higher, over the door pillar and onto the corner of the windscreen… less likely to be blown off, I thought, and watched him from the corner of my eye as he clung on like some out-of-place hood ornament, feelers still extended in curiosity at the speed.
So I took him to work.
If you’re still there at the end of the day, I’ll try and take you home, I said, as I got out and unlocked the office door. But you’ll have to be patient – I have to do some shopping and I can’t guarantee what may happen in Tesco’s car-park.
Some six hours later, I emerged to find that he’d settled down for a snooze at the edge of the windscreen, where there’s a bit of a lip that offered some security. Wise lad, I thought. Hang on, here we go again. A seasoned traveller by now, he didn’t even stir as we set off, and remained tucked down and shell-bound all the way.
I guessed he’d had enough of the travelling life when I found him still in the same place after I’d done the shopping. I guess people don’t look closely at the cars when they’re parked – nobody seems to have noticed my car was customised.
So we came home, and after unloading, I carefully lifted him from the windscreen and placed him back in the fuchsia bush. I think he was still snoring. I wondered what he’d think when he woke up – do snails dream of speed, like humans do of flying? And would I know him again, if I saw him sprinting up the wall one rainy night, on his way to the chimney pot?
With another car behind me, it wasn’t possible to stop and leave the freeloader in a convenient hedgerow, so I willed him to hang on and we’d part company at the garden centre. He seemed to take heart from this, and started to explore the window, riding along with his wee feelers blowing in the breeze. Up to the top, and halfway down, sticking to the glass by sheer force of will and a sticky foot.
I tried to keep an eye on him, but after coming close to the verge a few times decided that his fate was in the lap of whatever small gods snails have, and concentrated on my driving.
We made it to the garden centre, both unscathed, and I contemplated finding a suitable flowerbed and setting him down in safety there… then I thought again. Garden Centres are not known for their friendship with those of a shelly persuasion, and in leaving him there, may well be condemning him to an early demise. After his tenacity, and plucky determination, I felt this was not something I could be party to, and suggested to him that if he was still on board when I came out of the centre, I would drop him off in the leafy haven of the lay-by just north of the village.
When I came out, he had wandered down to the wing mirror, and was making cautious investigations of the spiderwebs. (Of the spider who lives behind the mirror, there was no sign – obviously reluctant to get involved with one with so many fewer legs than herself). Well, hang on and we’ll soon have you sorted, I said, wondering if anyone was listening to me talking to my wing mirror.
There was a lorry in the lay-by, and no room to pull in behind it. Snail had climbed higher, over the door pillar and onto the corner of the windscreen… less likely to be blown off, I thought, and watched him from the corner of my eye as he clung on like some out-of-place hood ornament, feelers still extended in curiosity at the speed.
So I took him to work.
If you’re still there at the end of the day, I’ll try and take you home, I said, as I got out and unlocked the office door. But you’ll have to be patient – I have to do some shopping and I can’t guarantee what may happen in Tesco’s car-park.
Some six hours later, I emerged to find that he’d settled down for a snooze at the edge of the windscreen, where there’s a bit of a lip that offered some security. Wise lad, I thought. Hang on, here we go again. A seasoned traveller by now, he didn’t even stir as we set off, and remained tucked down and shell-bound all the way.
I guessed he’d had enough of the travelling life when I found him still in the same place after I’d done the shopping. I guess people don’t look closely at the cars when they’re parked – nobody seems to have noticed my car was customised.
So we came home, and after unloading, I carefully lifted him from the windscreen and placed him back in the fuchsia bush. I think he was still snoring. I wondered what he’d think when he woke up – do snails dream of speed, like humans do of flying? And would I know him again, if I saw him sprinting up the wall one rainy night, on his way to the chimney pot?
Monday, 2 April 2007
Doggerel
i'm being stared at by a nose -
the other end's a tail that goes
around in circles, up and down;
a hairy dog that's small, and brown.
she's fond of cheese and walks and sleep
and blankets left all in a heap;
she mumps and grumps
and moans and groans,
she bounces, flounces,
chews up bones.
a welcome bounce can soothe your woes
but i'm being stared at by a nose.....
the other end's a tail that goes
around in circles, up and down;
a hairy dog that's small, and brown.
she's fond of cheese and walks and sleep
and blankets left all in a heap;
she mumps and grumps
and moans and groans,
she bounces, flounces,
chews up bones.
a welcome bounce can soothe your woes
but i'm being stared at by a nose.....
Tuesday, 27 March 2007
The Stare - DogBlog II
I am being stared at by a nose. It’s attached to a small hairy dog, who thinks there is an outside possibility that I may have cheese about my person. Or within reach. Or in the same room. It’s a penetrating stare, which has little to do with eyes (well, they’re getting a little less than perfect), and she’s able to maintain it for hours. If I move chairs, she shifts round to keep The Stare on target. I am – to her small doggy brain – She Who Gives Cheese.
In the same fashion, Mum is She Who Walks. If she moves from the sofa, she has a hairy shadow. Just in case she’s going out. Even if it’s only to the kitchen. Or to the bathroom – we get accustomed to being escorted (and mump-grumped at while we are in there). The Stare (it has developed a personality of its own) follows us wherever we go.
The joy of dogs.
In the same fashion, Mum is She Who Walks. If she moves from the sofa, she has a hairy shadow. Just in case she’s going out. Even if it’s only to the kitchen. Or to the bathroom – we get accustomed to being escorted (and mump-grumped at while we are in there). The Stare (it has developed a personality of its own) follows us wherever we go.
The joy of dogs.
Friday, 22 December 2006
Inferno Re-Visited
Dante was wrong. There are ten circles of Hell.
A foretaste of this last, and deepest, darkest circle, is vouchsafed to those who venture out at this time of year… From years of such observation, the full extent of the nightmare can finally be made known.
Beyond Limbo, beyond the city of
Above the door, an archaic sign reads ‘Lucifer, Asmodeus and Beelzebub, licensed purveyors of wines, spirits, beer, tobacco, despair and game. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.’
The Door is guarded by a demon, who does not try to keep out the poor damned souls clustering at the entryway; rather, it forces upon each a torturous device of metal, wheeled and cage-like, and hastens them through the portal. Barriers swing wide of their own account, drawing the damned deeper into that which lies beyond. A hot, burning wind blows over the damned souls as they enter, a foretaste of what is to come. Eyes wide, the souls behold a huge cavern, stretching on for eternity, and find in their hands a piece of parchment, a list of such length as to take almost forever to glean from the serried ranks of razor-edged shelves that line the endless aisles…
And thus they set out upon their futile quest – to gather everything on the list in their trembling hands. For if they succeed, and gain the FinalCheckOut, they will be released from this torment, and will forever rest in peace – or so they believe, for none has ever succeeded in escaping. For many are the trials and tribulations that lie ahead, and loud is the Infernal Muzack playing all around.
The wheeled devices go not where the damned direct them, but follow a path of their own that takes the soul not past the cool Havens of the Frozen Foods but onwards to the Sprouts of Doom. A cry of woe rings the Vegetable Department – for Lo, there are no leeks until Tuesday! The hot breath of the mighty Heaters increases. And the damned are forced to loose their collars, and sweat breaks out on each face. One soul reaches the Infinite Shelf of Baking Products, but alas – there are raisins, sultanas, dried apricots, dried apple flakes, sunflower seeds, self-raising flour, self-deflating flour, organic flour, inorganic flour, gluten-free flour, flour-free flour – but no chocolate chips. Perhaps they have been relocated?
The damned soul beseeches a passing imp, pallid and be-spotted, which calls to its brood mate, ‘
The imp Sharon scratches the tips of her horns with her tail, tilting the festive baubles hung thereon, and responds, ‘Aisle 134,237,901, with the biscuits. Been there since the new EU regulations came in.’
The soul sinks its head in its hands and weeps.
In Seasonal Goods, a fight breaks out as one damned soul pounces on the last roll of wrapping paper and bears it off in triumph.
They cannot leave until their list is fulfilled, precisely As It Is Writ, with no substitutions or alternative manufacturers, for Our Dad will only eat a certain brand of beans. Which are currently out of stock. And no item shall be Past Its Sell By Date, for this renders it invalid. Should a persistent soul, after many millennia crawling the aisles, finally see ahead the haven of the FinalCheckOut, it is certain that the queue will stretch to the rear of the Great Cavern, beyond even the Bread Counter. And it will not proceed, for there will be those who try to substitute items, or who have forgotten the frozen peas. Or have cartons of milk that have split. And if by some chance the damned soul finds itself at the end of the eternally halted conveyor belt, the demon at the till will close the checkout as the soul starts to empty the trolley’s contents onto the conveyor. And there will be a wailing and a gnashing of teeth.
And ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ will begin again on the loudspeakers…
Wednesday, 6 December 2006
Travels with a Temporary Dog
For reasons that are too complex to go into, Mum has become temporary custodian of a small dog. Consequently, when Mum comes to visit, the dog comes too. Like now.
Looks cute and innocent, doesn’t she? Hah!
She is a ‘combination terrier’ - Lakeland, Yorkshire and Border, to be precise, but in terms of attitude and personality her breed is now designated ‘Monstrous Baskervillian’. It’s very deceptive; she is small, quite dainty in a fluffy sort of way, and all of 12 years old, so you would think age would have brought some sort of decorum to her.
Not a hope.
For a start, she hates other dogs. She wants to tear them to bits. It is, quite frankly, embarrassing - Mum takes her out, and if they meet another dog, the snarling-like-a-banshee begins. Other owners wave at their dog ‘Oh, it’s OK, they won’t hurt her’ and Mum has to reply - ‘no, it’s her that’s the problem!’ Now, if Mum sees another dog in the distance, she takes evasive action. The streets in my village are linked by a maze of alleyways between the houses, so it’s no problem to simply sideslip off one road on to another - but she feels she’s becoming known as 'the disappearing woman' - one minute she’s there, the next time people look up, she’s gone. I feel a myth coming on…
Then there’s the business with the food bowl. She eats the dried mixed biscuit stuff, and eats when she wants to - which is mostly at night. She likes the big meaty chunks, and eats those first, working her way gradually down to the boring beige and green bits, which get left until last. She doesn’t get a refill until she’s finished the last lot; at this point she lets us know by bringing her bowl into the living room and dropping it in a marked manner in the middle of the floor. She has been known to tip out the last few green bits onto the kitchen floor and pretend the bowl is empty. If we are busy, and ignore her, she is quite likely to whack one of us across the shins with the bowl. (Coming in from a long car trip and wanting a drink, she once threw an empty bucket at Mum) If she finishes her food at night, one is quite likely to find the bowl placed carefully in the middle of the bathroom doorway, where it can be stepped on during a nocturnal foray to the toilet…
She is also very vocal. Not in a ‘woof-woof’ or ‘yap-yap’, or even a ‘whine-whine’ sort of way, though. Nope. This dog makes a strange, throaty noise rather akin to the creaking of the front door of the Addams Family mansion. It’s known, colloquially, as ’mumping and grumping’. Like 'hrmfh.. grmph... urrrrnnn.... mmfphmmfph'. This happens when she thinks something is up - or if something is not happening that she thinks should be - like walks, or attention. In the car it's constant at low speeds, (she's quite settled if we're going fast) and the complaints when we go round corners and roundabouts increase in pitch and volume and can be expressed in Human as something along the lines of 'ohmigodyou'renotgoinginastraightline.. you'regoingroundsomething… your'egoingtokillus…augh'.....
She travels in the passenger foot-well - I tried using a harness in the back but being an escapologist of Houdini standard, this was doomed from the start. Plus, being attached to the seatbelt, she pulled this forward, and I was inclined to get a wet nose in my ear at inopportune moments. So the foot-well it is, ideally with Mum as guardian, and she’s reasonably OK there. One just has to get used to the idea of reaching to change gear and encountering a wet nose instead of the gear-lever. Going from ‘second’ to ‘dog-nose’ is not the most pleasant manoeuvre.
And she’s a drama queen. If we encounter a sudden bump in the road, she is quite likely to take off vertically. (I must point out - she doesn’t do this with her real owner. ) If you stand close to one hair of her tail, you’d think she’d been murdered. She has a range of facial expressions from smug to disdain to utter horror (like when we go out without her).
She loves people. She loves heat. She loves games and walks.
She reminds us why we haven’t had a dog for forty years……
Looks cute and innocent, doesn’t she? Hah!
She is a ‘combination terrier’ - Lakeland, Yorkshire and Border, to be precise, but in terms of attitude and personality her breed is now designated ‘Monstrous Baskervillian’. It’s very deceptive; she is small, quite dainty in a fluffy sort of way, and all of 12 years old, so you would think age would have brought some sort of decorum to her.
Not a hope.
For a start, she hates other dogs. She wants to tear them to bits. It is, quite frankly, embarrassing - Mum takes her out, and if they meet another dog, the snarling-like-a-banshee begins. Other owners wave at their dog ‘Oh, it’s OK, they won’t hurt her’ and Mum has to reply - ‘no, it’s her that’s the problem!’ Now, if Mum sees another dog in the distance, she takes evasive action. The streets in my village are linked by a maze of alleyways between the houses, so it’s no problem to simply sideslip off one road on to another - but she feels she’s becoming known as 'the disappearing woman' - one minute she’s there, the next time people look up, she’s gone. I feel a myth coming on…
Then there’s the business with the food bowl. She eats the dried mixed biscuit stuff, and eats when she wants to - which is mostly at night. She likes the big meaty chunks, and eats those first, working her way gradually down to the boring beige and green bits, which get left until last. She doesn’t get a refill until she’s finished the last lot; at this point she lets us know by bringing her bowl into the living room and dropping it in a marked manner in the middle of the floor. She has been known to tip out the last few green bits onto the kitchen floor and pretend the bowl is empty. If we are busy, and ignore her, she is quite likely to whack one of us across the shins with the bowl. (Coming in from a long car trip and wanting a drink, she once threw an empty bucket at Mum) If she finishes her food at night, one is quite likely to find the bowl placed carefully in the middle of the bathroom doorway, where it can be stepped on during a nocturnal foray to the toilet…
She is also very vocal. Not in a ‘woof-woof’ or ‘yap-yap’, or even a ‘whine-whine’ sort of way, though. Nope. This dog makes a strange, throaty noise rather akin to the creaking of the front door of the Addams Family mansion. It’s known, colloquially, as ’mumping and grumping’. Like 'hrmfh.. grmph... urrrrnnn.... mmfphmmfph'. This happens when she thinks something is up - or if something is not happening that she thinks should be - like walks, or attention. In the car it's constant at low speeds, (she's quite settled if we're going fast) and the complaints when we go round corners and roundabouts increase in pitch and volume and can be expressed in Human as something along the lines of 'ohmigodyou'renotgoinginastraightline.. you'regoingroundsomething… your'egoingtokillus…augh'.....
She travels in the passenger foot-well - I tried using a harness in the back but being an escapologist of Houdini standard, this was doomed from the start. Plus, being attached to the seatbelt, she pulled this forward, and I was inclined to get a wet nose in my ear at inopportune moments. So the foot-well it is, ideally with Mum as guardian, and she’s reasonably OK there. One just has to get used to the idea of reaching to change gear and encountering a wet nose instead of the gear-lever. Going from ‘second’ to ‘dog-nose’ is not the most pleasant manoeuvre.
And she’s a drama queen. If we encounter a sudden bump in the road, she is quite likely to take off vertically. (I must point out - she doesn’t do this with her real owner. ) If you stand close to one hair of her tail, you’d think she’d been murdered. She has a range of facial expressions from smug to disdain to utter horror (like when we go out without her).
She loves people. She loves heat. She loves games and walks.
She reminds us why we haven’t had a dog for forty years……
Wednesday, 25 October 2006
Encounters - 15 October
So I had a lie-in, of course…what did you expect?
Sunday morning in Strasbourg is relaxed. The trams still run, naturally, and there is a to-ing and fro-ing of people, but a lot sit out around the squares, just taking in the ambience and enjoying the sunshine. Which is what I did, for a while. Until I got into conversation with another taker of the morning air – he passed by with his dog, and smiled. Being polite, I smiled back. He commented on the weather, and I replied, in my fractured French. He enquired if I was German – no, Anglais. He spoke fractured English. He asked if he could sit down on the bench I was on. There was no-one else on it, and it’s a free country, after all. We began to chat – the usual niceties, the weather, where we were from; he was from Mauritius, did I know where it was – yes, in the Indian Ocean – he seemed surprised. He was an ex-sailor, he had been to England but had come to France and now had his dog. We considered how places had changed over the recent past – wages, job opportunities and the like.
Was I here with anyone?
Yes – I explained about the science fair.
Was I here with my wife?
I blinked, but reckoned he meant husband – no, some colleagues.
Was I married?
In retrospect, I guess this is the point where alarm bells rang. Quietly. And I should have invented a large hairy man lurking in the background. But being me, I told the truth.
No.
Children?
No, I work with them, which is quite enough!
‘Do you not like sex then? There is plenty in France! If you like women there are some hot ones!’ the conversation became more graphic.
I’m not exactly sure what I said here, but I made my excuses, politely thanked him for his company and scurried back to the safety of the hotel and the ‘Bringing the Cows Down the Mountain’ celebrations on the local TV channel. And the weekend meteorological programme.
I shouldn’t be let out without a keeper.
Meanwhile, Liz and Lucy had made their way to the Museum of Modern Art, and had discovered, amongst other things, the exhibition of erotica...
We meet up at the tent just before 2.00 pm, and as the doors opened, a positive flood of people come in, and it’s non-stop thereafter. Joanna has difficulties getting away to catch her plane, being in the throes of tree-making. One very small and utterly enchanting little girl comes in with her mother, and proceeds to make a tree, with my help. I can tell her Mum wants to get on and get home, but the wee lass is engrossed, and won’t quit until the tree is completed to her satisfaction. Mum has the rueful, ‘I know we’ll be doing this at home’ look I’ve come to know, but she is very patient. Eventually, they leave, clutching a tree, partly in pieces – I’d explained it was best to take it that way so bits didn’t become ‘perdue’. When I next look up, the little one is back again, busy with paper. She cuts and folds for a while and then silently presents her creation to me.
‘Pour moi?’
She nods, silently smiling, and goes off to find her mother.
Outside the stag herd grows apace. David the Security Man is now a convert ‘I thought this was stupid when it started, but it is all about families, which is the important thing - it is wonderful!’ he confides to Lucy.
One lad has been coming back for three days now, making part of a stag until he has to go. The first day, his half-built creation had ‘gone for recycling’ at the end of the day; when he came back and it wasn’t there he had set to and rebuilt it, and this time it was saved overnight – he’s back again today and is very intent on his task. He finishes just as the event does, and proudly displays his creature. He then has to go home on the tram (he was late yesterday, we expected him to be grounded!) and so leaves it, content that he has finished it at last. He takes the last of the ‘giveaways’ with him.
Time to pack up. The tent is stripped down in about 45 minutes, all the stands a mass of frantically packing people. We say a sad farewell to Eric and Delphine (and leave her with the last of the marshmallows!) The organizer is delighted – she reckons we’ve had 11,700 people through the tent since opening on Friday (I don’t know where the numbers came form, but there was semi-controlled entry, so maybe it’s not too much a case of creative accounting.) I reckon we’ve seen at least 700 to 800 of them on our stand(s) over the three days. She wants one of our stags for her office, and we give her my little fellow, as he’s small enough to fit and strong enough to have survived this far. I’m glad – I didn’t want to witness the moment when he would be broken up and sent for recycling. OK, so I’m daft! It’s not news!
The three of us head back to the hotel, to clean up and relax. From my window, I watch a distant plane draw a contrail across the clear blue sky, and am staggered that we have only been here four days; it seems much longer.
Then it’s out for supper at the tavern at the back of the square – a seafood and local produce place, wonderful langoustine bisque, steak the way I like it (shown to the grill briefly), and a large measure of beer. We make plans for our sightseeing trip tomorrow – Liz wants to do a walking tour, Lucy wants to see the astronomical clock at the cathedral, I want to do the river trip. The shoe shops are also exerting a certain call on Liz…
We agree to meet up at the cathedral at 12.15-ish, and take it from there. We leave the tavern, which has suddenly turned into THE place to watch the football, and head back across the square, early for a change. Above the Music Hall, small shapes are flickering back and forth. Bats, chasing moths drawn in by the lights illuminating the building at night. It’s air combat to rival anything previously seen in the skies over France, wingtip turns, dives and barrel rolls. The bats don’t have it all their own way, the moths drop like stones to evade their pursuers, sending the bats off course, skimming the roof tiles at high speed.
We watch, the only ones on the square looking up.
Sunday morning in Strasbourg is relaxed. The trams still run, naturally, and there is a to-ing and fro-ing of people, but a lot sit out around the squares, just taking in the ambience and enjoying the sunshine. Which is what I did, for a while. Until I got into conversation with another taker of the morning air – he passed by with his dog, and smiled. Being polite, I smiled back. He commented on the weather, and I replied, in my fractured French. He enquired if I was German – no, Anglais. He spoke fractured English. He asked if he could sit down on the bench I was on. There was no-one else on it, and it’s a free country, after all. We began to chat – the usual niceties, the weather, where we were from; he was from Mauritius, did I know where it was – yes, in the Indian Ocean – he seemed surprised. He was an ex-sailor, he had been to England but had come to France and now had his dog. We considered how places had changed over the recent past – wages, job opportunities and the like.
Was I here with anyone?
Yes – I explained about the science fair.
Was I here with my wife?
I blinked, but reckoned he meant husband – no, some colleagues.
Was I married?
In retrospect, I guess this is the point where alarm bells rang. Quietly. And I should have invented a large hairy man lurking in the background. But being me, I told the truth.
No.
Children?
No, I work with them, which is quite enough!
‘Do you not like sex then? There is plenty in France! If you like women there are some hot ones!’ the conversation became more graphic.
I’m not exactly sure what I said here, but I made my excuses, politely thanked him for his company and scurried back to the safety of the hotel and the ‘Bringing the Cows Down the Mountain’ celebrations on the local TV channel. And the weekend meteorological programme.
I shouldn’t be let out without a keeper.
Meanwhile, Liz and Lucy had made their way to the Museum of Modern Art, and had discovered, amongst other things, the exhibition of erotica...
We meet up at the tent just before 2.00 pm, and as the doors opened, a positive flood of people come in, and it’s non-stop thereafter. Joanna has difficulties getting away to catch her plane, being in the throes of tree-making. One very small and utterly enchanting little girl comes in with her mother, and proceeds to make a tree, with my help. I can tell her Mum wants to get on and get home, but the wee lass is engrossed, and won’t quit until the tree is completed to her satisfaction. Mum has the rueful, ‘I know we’ll be doing this at home’ look I’ve come to know, but she is very patient. Eventually, they leave, clutching a tree, partly in pieces – I’d explained it was best to take it that way so bits didn’t become ‘perdue’. When I next look up, the little one is back again, busy with paper. She cuts and folds for a while and then silently presents her creation to me.
‘Pour moi?’
She nods, silently smiling, and goes off to find her mother.
Outside the stag herd grows apace. David the Security Man is now a convert ‘I thought this was stupid when it started, but it is all about families, which is the important thing - it is wonderful!’ he confides to Lucy.
One lad has been coming back for three days now, making part of a stag until he has to go. The first day, his half-built creation had ‘gone for recycling’ at the end of the day; when he came back and it wasn’t there he had set to and rebuilt it, and this time it was saved overnight – he’s back again today and is very intent on his task. He finishes just as the event does, and proudly displays his creature. He then has to go home on the tram (he was late yesterday, we expected him to be grounded!) and so leaves it, content that he has finished it at last. He takes the last of the ‘giveaways’ with him.
Time to pack up. The tent is stripped down in about 45 minutes, all the stands a mass of frantically packing people. We say a sad farewell to Eric and Delphine (and leave her with the last of the marshmallows!) The organizer is delighted – she reckons we’ve had 11,700 people through the tent since opening on Friday (I don’t know where the numbers came form, but there was semi-controlled entry, so maybe it’s not too much a case of creative accounting.) I reckon we’ve seen at least 700 to 800 of them on our stand(s) over the three days. She wants one of our stags for her office, and we give her my little fellow, as he’s small enough to fit and strong enough to have survived this far. I’m glad – I didn’t want to witness the moment when he would be broken up and sent for recycling. OK, so I’m daft! It’s not news!
The three of us head back to the hotel, to clean up and relax. From my window, I watch a distant plane draw a contrail across the clear blue sky, and am staggered that we have only been here four days; it seems much longer.
Then it’s out for supper at the tavern at the back of the square – a seafood and local produce place, wonderful langoustine bisque, steak the way I like it (shown to the grill briefly), and a large measure of beer. We make plans for our sightseeing trip tomorrow – Liz wants to do a walking tour, Lucy wants to see the astronomical clock at the cathedral, I want to do the river trip. The shoe shops are also exerting a certain call on Liz…
We agree to meet up at the cathedral at 12.15-ish, and take it from there. We leave the tavern, which has suddenly turned into THE place to watch the football, and head back across the square, early for a change. Above the Music Hall, small shapes are flickering back and forth. Bats, chasing moths drawn in by the lights illuminating the building at night. It’s air combat to rival anything previously seen in the skies over France, wingtip turns, dives and barrel rolls. The bats don’t have it all their own way, the moths drop like stones to evade their pursuers, sending the bats off course, skimming the roof tiles at high speed.
We watch, the only ones on the square looking up.
Thursday, 28 September 2006
Bee in his Bonnet?
The new postman doesn’t like my garden. There are too many things in it. He leaves me notes – ‘can you cut back your bushes because of the bees’. He threatens to leave my post at other houses. I feel like saying – you’re a postman, you should be brave – after all, what about dogs? Surely a few bees aren’t a problem? They don’t want to bite your ankles! If I’m home, I see him bending down as he pass the window, preparing to duck under the honeysuckles that run along the wall and over the front door - and incidentally act as a porch, giving shelter when I come home in the rain and am grovelling about in my bag or pocket trying to find my keys. He doesn’t like the honeysuckle 'massive'. It has bees. And moths. And spiders. And various other wildlife. It shelters my snails. And one part of it has big blousy cream and pink flowers in summer, and the other has smaller, delicate white and cream flowers in the early spring, sometimes when the snow is still on the ground, and it defies the worst of the weather.
I don’t think he likes the fuchsia bush by the gate either. From small beginnings it has grown to about two metres in height, and three wide, and at this time of year it’s dripping with red and purple flowers, humming with honey and bumble bees, a clarion call of colour as the sere shades of autumn creep into the rest of the garden. But it doesn’t get in the way. It’s been trimmed back so it doesn’t hang too far over the wall, or get in the way as you come through the gate. There’s a clematis somewhere in the mix as well, a small-flowered blue alpine one, with feathery seed-heads late in the season. This also defies the weather and the salt wind to surprise me with its delicacy and toughness.
The last postman liked my garden – since he’s retired (and taken the job of school crossing guard) he also delivers papers, and we swap gardening thoughts and seeds as the year goes round.
But we all have to get on, and so every so often, I trim the honeysuckle. But not very often!
I don’t think he likes the fuchsia bush by the gate either. From small beginnings it has grown to about two metres in height, and three wide, and at this time of year it’s dripping with red and purple flowers, humming with honey and bumble bees, a clarion call of colour as the sere shades of autumn creep into the rest of the garden. But it doesn’t get in the way. It’s been trimmed back so it doesn’t hang too far over the wall, or get in the way as you come through the gate. There’s a clematis somewhere in the mix as well, a small-flowered blue alpine one, with feathery seed-heads late in the season. This also defies the weather and the salt wind to surprise me with its delicacy and toughness.
The last postman liked my garden – since he’s retired (and taken the job of school crossing guard) he also delivers papers, and we swap gardening thoughts and seeds as the year goes round.
But we all have to get on, and so every so often, I trim the honeysuckle. But not very often!
Wednesday, 9 August 2006
It's not quite International Rescue...
Our local nature reserve is having a bit of work done.
Over time, willow scrub has encroached on a lot of the marshland, and the nineteenth-century canalisation of the burn that runs into the loch has resulted in the water becoming eutrophic - full of nitrate run-off from the surrounding farmland and from the ‘deposits’ of the thousands of geese that spend the winter here. Years of rough weather have eroded the islands in the loch, reducing the available nesting space for terns and other seabirds. With only two sluices, controlling the water flow through the site is difficult, and there are permanently flooded areas where it would be better to have seasonal changes in water level.
Recent grants from the Heritage Lottery Fund and from the EU have enabled much of this to be put right, and improved; new sluices and changes to the topography of the main wet grassland areas will enable the water levels to be controlled more precisely, to enable ideal grass and invertebrate conditions for spring nesting waders, such as redshank and lapwing, and winter grazing for the geese. The burn is being diverted to run on its old course, winding through reedbeds; this has the advantage of slowing down the flow, trapping the silt and nitrates in the reeds, preventing them reaching the loch, and providing better habitat for other waterbirds such as bittern and marsh harrier. Ultimately, the loch can be cleaned up and water quality improved. There will be better access to hides and improved disabled provision. All in all, a major project and one that will have significant and positive impact on the reserve.
Of course, all this work has to be done whilst taking care of the marshland - so it’s taken some pretty specialised machinery. Two of the original islands have been reinstated, by means of a very ingenious monorail system which transported reinforcing edging and gravel out into the loch in a matter of days before being taken down with little or no impact on the ground. All the remaining machinery is ‘big footprint’ stuff - wide tyres to spread the load and cut down on soil compaction and compression, and the schedule carefully organised so that scrub is taken up and burned on site in a specialised burner, before the ash goes on the surrounding fields as fertiliser, the cutters and burner making a slow and precise progress through the old willows. It has been planned like a military campaign, trying to get it done in before the birds return in autumn. Naturally, there is some disturbance now, but the terns on the island in front of the visitor centre haven’t been put off (over 130 pairs nested this year), and the moorhens seem to be multiplying faster than ever! With the resident ducks in eclipse - all are brown and growing new feathers - Mum refuses to try and sort them out while they are like this, (she says it’s just too much effort) so we went just to see how the work was progressing from the vantage point of the visitor centre.
For a Saturday afternoon, it was still busy. A bulldozer was remodelling the wet grassland area in front of the centre, shoving the soil (to the evident delight of the gulls who were picking it over for worms and other wee beasties) into a big heap, which was being loaded by a digger into a tipper truck, which took it elsewhere in the field where the levels need building up. Scrub cutters were busy, away to the right by the lochside, where the burner was doing its job. Another digger was busy to the left, several fields away on the other side of the burn, cutting the new channel, and yet another parked in the field beyond that, attracting the attention of the cows. The burn itself runs from left to right at the back of the field directly in front of where we were sitting. Much of the willow scrub to the right has vanished, leaving clear views across to the old wind pump tower. Another cutter, truck and a quad bike were parked at the back of this field, near the burn.
We played ‘Spot the Machinery’ for a while, and idly tried to sort Arctic from Common terns. After about twenty minutes of this, we were contemplating going home for tea, when the driver of the parked cutter returned, got into his vehicle and went to do some work on the willows by the burn to the left of the field. This is an area bounded by reedbeds and willow scrub, rather narrow where the bank of the burn runs at the bottom of another field, and required taking the cutter across the top of one of the sluices. He hadn’t been there long, and we wanted to see how the machine worked, so we watched through binoculars, agreeing that he seemed to be at a somewhat precarious angle.
The long arm of the cutter waved about a bit, hauled a few bushes out, and then waved in a more uncertain fashion. The machine looked to be well down the bank by the burn. After a minute or two, the cutter arm appeared again swinging round and we got the feeling that it was trying to get purchase on the top of the bank. This was complicated by a nearby fence-line and another field of cows. The driver got out and jogged back towards the other machinery at work in front of us.
‘He’s got it stuck’ says Mum.
The driver of the bulldozer parked his machine, got out, and walked back to the cutter with the original driver. They stood around for a while, scratching their heads and inspecting it. The ‘dozer driver had a go at getting it out of the ditch, and failed. Meanwhile, the drivers of the tipper and the digger parked their machines, and wandered over to have a look. There was more head scratching.
The digger driver went back, and carefully drove his machine up close to the cutter, and seemed to be rearranging the cut scrub to try to provide less slippery footing. This didn’t work. The ‘dozer driver had ago at the same, with similar lack of success. More scratching of heads. A mobile phone was put to use. At this point, the tipper driver and the digger driver took the quad bike down to join the rest of the incident. There were now four of them, standing around the cutter. Evidently the power of head scratching wasn’t working.
The pair on the quad vanished, somewhere into the willows. Evidently they crossed the burn somewhere higher up, as the quad appeared some time later on the far side (with only one of them on board) and headed up the field to the parked digger. Then a white van appeared from behind the willows, and headed up the field at speed; when it stopped for the driver to open the gate and get out onto the farm track , we could see it was driven by the tipper driver. He took off at speed down the farm track towards the area where the machinery is generally parked when not in action.
‘Wonder where he’s off to?’ we said. ‘Shall we stay and see if they get it out?’
The digger driver collected the other digger driver (who had been sitting in his cab) and headed in the direction of the gate. No sooner had they got there than the white van came back, and both vehicles set off for the incident site.
Now there were five men, all stood around, looking at the cutter and scratching their heads. The original driver of the cutter got out a camera to take some pictures. The second digger driver now got into the stranded cutter, and the ‘dozer driver assumed control of the digger. The tipper driver brought the quad bike round, and hitched a chain from the digger to the cutter, before beating a hasty retreat. With much effort and a cloud of diesel smoke, the digger began to move backwards. The arm of the cutter waved around precariously again, and the original driver took more photos, before waving instructions about avoiding the fence. The importance of this was obvious, as the cows in the field were, by now, gathering to see what was happening. The digger continued to move backwards.
Slowly, majestically, and in another cloud of diesel smoke, the cutter emerged from the ditch.
I don’t know if they heard the cheering and applause from the visitor centre.
Over time, willow scrub has encroached on a lot of the marshland, and the nineteenth-century canalisation of the burn that runs into the loch has resulted in the water becoming eutrophic - full of nitrate run-off from the surrounding farmland and from the ‘deposits’ of the thousands of geese that spend the winter here. Years of rough weather have eroded the islands in the loch, reducing the available nesting space for terns and other seabirds. With only two sluices, controlling the water flow through the site is difficult, and there are permanently flooded areas where it would be better to have seasonal changes in water level.
Recent grants from the Heritage Lottery Fund and from the EU have enabled much of this to be put right, and improved; new sluices and changes to the topography of the main wet grassland areas will enable the water levels to be controlled more precisely, to enable ideal grass and invertebrate conditions for spring nesting waders, such as redshank and lapwing, and winter grazing for the geese. The burn is being diverted to run on its old course, winding through reedbeds; this has the advantage of slowing down the flow, trapping the silt and nitrates in the reeds, preventing them reaching the loch, and providing better habitat for other waterbirds such as bittern and marsh harrier. Ultimately, the loch can be cleaned up and water quality improved. There will be better access to hides and improved disabled provision. All in all, a major project and one that will have significant and positive impact on the reserve.
Of course, all this work has to be done whilst taking care of the marshland - so it’s taken some pretty specialised machinery. Two of the original islands have been reinstated, by means of a very ingenious monorail system which transported reinforcing edging and gravel out into the loch in a matter of days before being taken down with little or no impact on the ground. All the remaining machinery is ‘big footprint’ stuff - wide tyres to spread the load and cut down on soil compaction and compression, and the schedule carefully organised so that scrub is taken up and burned on site in a specialised burner, before the ash goes on the surrounding fields as fertiliser, the cutters and burner making a slow and precise progress through the old willows. It has been planned like a military campaign, trying to get it done in before the birds return in autumn. Naturally, there is some disturbance now, but the terns on the island in front of the visitor centre haven’t been put off (over 130 pairs nested this year), and the moorhens seem to be multiplying faster than ever! With the resident ducks in eclipse - all are brown and growing new feathers - Mum refuses to try and sort them out while they are like this, (she says it’s just too much effort) so we went just to see how the work was progressing from the vantage point of the visitor centre.
For a Saturday afternoon, it was still busy. A bulldozer was remodelling the wet grassland area in front of the centre, shoving the soil (to the evident delight of the gulls who were picking it over for worms and other wee beasties) into a big heap, which was being loaded by a digger into a tipper truck, which took it elsewhere in the field where the levels need building up. Scrub cutters were busy, away to the right by the lochside, where the burner was doing its job. Another digger was busy to the left, several fields away on the other side of the burn, cutting the new channel, and yet another parked in the field beyond that, attracting the attention of the cows. The burn itself runs from left to right at the back of the field directly in front of where we were sitting. Much of the willow scrub to the right has vanished, leaving clear views across to the old wind pump tower. Another cutter, truck and a quad bike were parked at the back of this field, near the burn.
We played ‘Spot the Machinery’ for a while, and idly tried to sort Arctic from Common terns. After about twenty minutes of this, we were contemplating going home for tea, when the driver of the parked cutter returned, got into his vehicle and went to do some work on the willows by the burn to the left of the field. This is an area bounded by reedbeds and willow scrub, rather narrow where the bank of the burn runs at the bottom of another field, and required taking the cutter across the top of one of the sluices. He hadn’t been there long, and we wanted to see how the machine worked, so we watched through binoculars, agreeing that he seemed to be at a somewhat precarious angle.
The long arm of the cutter waved about a bit, hauled a few bushes out, and then waved in a more uncertain fashion. The machine looked to be well down the bank by the burn. After a minute or two, the cutter arm appeared again swinging round and we got the feeling that it was trying to get purchase on the top of the bank. This was complicated by a nearby fence-line and another field of cows. The driver got out and jogged back towards the other machinery at work in front of us.
‘He’s got it stuck’ says Mum.
The driver of the bulldozer parked his machine, got out, and walked back to the cutter with the original driver. They stood around for a while, scratching their heads and inspecting it. The ‘dozer driver had a go at getting it out of the ditch, and failed. Meanwhile, the drivers of the tipper and the digger parked their machines, and wandered over to have a look. There was more head scratching.
The digger driver went back, and carefully drove his machine up close to the cutter, and seemed to be rearranging the cut scrub to try to provide less slippery footing. This didn’t work. The ‘dozer driver had ago at the same, with similar lack of success. More scratching of heads. A mobile phone was put to use. At this point, the tipper driver and the digger driver took the quad bike down to join the rest of the incident. There were now four of them, standing around the cutter. Evidently the power of head scratching wasn’t working.
The pair on the quad vanished, somewhere into the willows. Evidently they crossed the burn somewhere higher up, as the quad appeared some time later on the far side (with only one of them on board) and headed up the field to the parked digger. Then a white van appeared from behind the willows, and headed up the field at speed; when it stopped for the driver to open the gate and get out onto the farm track , we could see it was driven by the tipper driver. He took off at speed down the farm track towards the area where the machinery is generally parked when not in action.
‘Wonder where he’s off to?’ we said. ‘Shall we stay and see if they get it out?’
The digger driver collected the other digger driver (who had been sitting in his cab) and headed in the direction of the gate. No sooner had they got there than the white van came back, and both vehicles set off for the incident site.
Now there were five men, all stood around, looking at the cutter and scratching their heads. The original driver of the cutter got out a camera to take some pictures. The second digger driver now got into the stranded cutter, and the ‘dozer driver assumed control of the digger. The tipper driver brought the quad bike round, and hitched a chain from the digger to the cutter, before beating a hasty retreat. With much effort and a cloud of diesel smoke, the digger began to move backwards. The arm of the cutter waved around precariously again, and the original driver took more photos, before waving instructions about avoiding the fence. The importance of this was obvious, as the cows in the field were, by now, gathering to see what was happening. The digger continued to move backwards.
Slowly, majestically, and in another cloud of diesel smoke, the cutter emerged from the ditch.
I don’t know if they heard the cheering and applause from the visitor centre.
Friday, 21 July 2006
Life in Slow Motion
The snails live on the walls of my garden, hiding under the shrubs, or clustered together in the evenings on the living room window, where they gather under the edge of the sash frame. Are they watching the TV? On wet nights they can be found idly perambulating across the path, and in the morning as I go to work I see their silvery trails across the doormat, or on a plant pot or two. I don’t begrudge them the small amount of damage they do; for some reason I find snails quite appealing. Slugs, on the other hand, have little to recommend them; they lurk under the rims of the plant pots, lumps of slime and gristle that surprise your fingers when you go to move the pot. I find it odd that I regard them so differently. What difference does a shell make? The snails, I will admit, are great performers when, on occasion, I take them to schools. Set on the back of my hand, they soon come out of their shells and extend their long eyestalks, peering myopically at the children as if to say ‘What’s this? Who are you?’ The children, for their part, seem equally fascinated by their small alien visitors, and talk back to them.
Snails in this part of the world are usually found at the seaside. Most of the underlying native rock is granite, which doesn’t provide sufficient calcium for them to grow their shells; by the sea, they take advantage of the crushed shell in the sandy soil, taken up by the plants that they eat, and they grow to the size of golf balls. It must be a precarious existence in some ways, being close to the sea. After all, how many of us have gone out with the salt pot at night to put an end to crawling lettuce lovers?
The warm, damp weather has spiced up the lives of the snails on the walls. Yesterday Mum caught several of them flagrantly mating, moistly entwined amid the foliage. Snails love-lives are complex; they are hermaphrodite, so each fertilises the other. In courtship - for snails do choose their partners - they fire small ‘arrows’ at each other, reeling each other in on thin white thread until their bodies are pressed together. D-I-Y Cupid? Or have they been watching old westerns on the TV, in the evenings? Whichever, I wait for the eggs to appear, and a new generation of snails to make their slow way to the window pane.
Snails in this part of the world are usually found at the seaside. Most of the underlying native rock is granite, which doesn’t provide sufficient calcium for them to grow their shells; by the sea, they take advantage of the crushed shell in the sandy soil, taken up by the plants that they eat, and they grow to the size of golf balls. It must be a precarious existence in some ways, being close to the sea. After all, how many of us have gone out with the salt pot at night to put an end to crawling lettuce lovers?
The warm, damp weather has spiced up the lives of the snails on the walls. Yesterday Mum caught several of them flagrantly mating, moistly entwined amid the foliage. Snails love-lives are complex; they are hermaphrodite, so each fertilises the other. In courtship - for snails do choose their partners - they fire small ‘arrows’ at each other, reeling each other in on thin white thread until their bodies are pressed together. D-I-Y Cupid? Or have they been watching old westerns on the TV, in the evenings? Whichever, I wait for the eggs to appear, and a new generation of snails to make their slow way to the window pane.
Saturday, 17 June 2006
Life's little mysteries (2)
Why is it that the hair on your head - however long - when it dangles down your back or brushes across your shoulder - doesn't tickle, but as soon as one itty-bitty hair gets detached from your head, and goes down your back or across your shoulder - it itches like hell?????
What is the evolutionary advantage of this?
What is the evolutionary advantage of this?
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