Sunday, 4 December 2011

The Most Boring Post I Ever Wrote...


Sunday Sunday so good to me... tra la la. (Yes, I know the song lyrics are different.) No two-year-old horse racing today. I think the great man in the sky is trying to lead me to the path of salvation. From our house, turn left at the top of the road, down Estover, left at the mini roundabout, over the level crossing, and opposite the undertakers shop (which used to be Wendy Janes, something like an adult version of Ann Summers) awaits the church. I think it is St John's. Iv'e been there for weddings and funerals but beyond enjoying the building for its architectural magnificence I can't say I have paid too much attention to the worship side. I think I am more of a hug-a-tree kind of person. Give me an elegant pine any day. I probably have a tree fetish because I can see the beauty in pine trees in particular. I never said I was normal. I think it's good to be a touch eccentric.

Nature is in my soul because it has a brutal honesty but beauty too. I am fed up with people chattering away about nothing. Too many people like me rambling on about trees and church! Where is my uninhabited island? Just me, a jolly parrot left from the last pirate to venture that way, the hope and despair of treasure buried (somewhere), a fishing rod made from a branch with string line and a couple of flint stones to light a fire. Perfect. Isn't it funny how my island is devoid of racing. Guess I can find two snails.

Today. Well, what can I say... Much rather look at the bird feeder in the garden and watch the gold finches fighting over niger seed. I bought one of those giant bird feeders after noticing next doors had great success with theirs. For the first few months the birds didn't show any interest. It kind of irritated me. Next doors feeder was literally a metre away, the other side of the fence, and it was like the Noah's Ark for birds. What they didn't have flocking to their bird feeder wasn't worth talking about. I kept thinking: 'flocking birds'. They would sit in the silver birch tree above the two gardens. I could tell they had seen my feeder. They couldn't miss it swinging like a bell in the wind. Did they care? I nearly sent my badge back to the RSPB in disgust. The poster said: ''How to identify garden birds.'' Not in your neighbours garden! That fence would skew the figures. I'm sure you can appreciate my frustration? I even tried some foreign finch seed in case they had gone all euro on me. I was asking about the next delivery of millet spray when we had a breakthrough. At ten-hundred hours a bird had been seen on the feeder. I set off a flare out of pure excitement. It was a sparrow. But that was a start, hey. You can't expect a golden eagle within the first few weeks. Not even Bill Oddie would have that much luck (not with seed) and he has TV cameras with offers of fame and fortune. Then one by one the birds began to learn we weren't intent on some horrible catch 'n' cage conspiracy. I love their cheerful song but I haven't buffed-up the Victorian bird cage just yet. Since then, we have been holding  our own with next doors. I think if there was a bird count we might be behind by a couple of robins. My favourites are the gold finches.  They may be elegant with their perfect plumage but don't let that fool you - they would kick you off the perch if they thought you had a beak full of their grub. As Eddie Straights would say: 'Love me birds.' 

What else can I moan about?  I had something in mind but was distracted and now forgotten what it was... Not good. Me old minds struggling today. What was it? Think man! It's all this church and tree talk it addles the mind. My brain is like one of those cheeses with holes. I'm inside one of those voids at this very moment and it's not a very good place unless you want to talk Dairy Lea Triangles. 

Oh yes, Iv'e remembered. See the old brain finally clicked into gear. It's going to be a study day for me. I have my eye on Richard Fahey. The handsome devil. You may have read one of my posts about his liking for the traditional cream tea. In fact, my cream teas are so legendary in the fens that we have a barter system where we get a tip for each serving. Last year was a great success. Richard was a modern-day Cleopatra but instead of bathing in milk his jacuzzi was a cauldron of clotted cream and strawberry jam. If you thought  he had a youthful glow that's down to us. I will be having a good study of this season's two-year-olds and see if he has any gems of wisdom. 

Well, I had better get on, hey.