I've Not Been Well You Know

Sunday night Mr Farmer called.... Ha! not for me the philanthropic gent from the fire escape trade, or any other of Mr Gabriel's mid 70's flights of fancy. No, my visitors were small, very small, infact microscopic. The satan bug had entered my body and soon my misery was to be long, painful and mainly spent in a small room. If the last of the Aztec Kings really intended such terrible revenge, then his wrath must have indeed been great.

Monday was a wash out (no pun intended) and Tuesday found me crawling in front of the TV to watch England play Pakistan in the first test at Dubai - which unfortunately for England, was not a wash out. Wednesday and Thursday continued in similar vein as the Pakistan bowling ran through England's batting at the same pace as anything ingested into my system. By Thursday afternoon the misery for both of us was over, England had capitulated and yours truly was on the mend.

Ignoring the quality of the cricket for a moment one thing that did strike me was the non-sensical situation regarding the number of people watching the game. In a magnificent ground capable of holding what I would guess to be 20 thousand or so spectators the total number watching must have numbered around 200. Whilst understanding the reasons for Pakistan not being able to play their home games at home, it is very sad that test matchs should be played in front of so few (but knowledgeable) fans.

Talking of which, is it just me, or has rugby union become the fashionable place to be seen these days? Having played a little and watched a lot of RU over the last 40+ years it seems to me, that club games have gone from small/medium sized crowds of ex players and true devotees of the game, to large, even huge audiences of people who seem to think they are attending Simon Cowell's latest reality extravaganca. Having never played the game they are eminently qualified to question every refereeing decision and declare foul play at every instance of the opposition carrying out a tackle or making contact with a home player.

Internationals at Twickenham are even worse. If its not bad enough having to jump through hoops and take out a small mortgage to buy a ticket you then find yourself sitting next to Barbie and Ken who talk incessantly throughout the match about everything under the sun, other than whats happening in front of them. Thats when they're not squeezing in front of you to buy drinks, food or go to the loo. Why do they bother - stay in the pub and let the real rugby fans get the tickets!

Nature spoting this week has, as you will have guessed, been a non event, but all this talk of people watching other people has reminded me of the number of occassions this winter when Robins have joined me in the hides to either satisfy their curiosity, or more often, beg a little food. Several of them are now so bold, that they will sit on you hand to peck some seed - its a wonderful feeling to share a few moments contact with something so light and fragile and yet so trusting, cock-sure and brave.

I've not been well you know.

The Log Pile

Good news! Myodes glareolus (formerly Clethrionomys glareolus) have moved into the new log pile in front of the woodland hide, although of course it's distinctly possible we located the log pile above their previous home. Now, having been captivated by the furtive commings and goings of these little creatures over the last few weeks, it seemed only right somehow, that my virgin forrays into the blogosphere and Flickr should be launched under the Bank Vole banner.

In all honesty I can't pretend that I totally identify with BV's lowly position in the food chain, nor would my hypertension manage too well at around 450 heart beats per minute - none the less - they seem to display a combination of audacity and stealth, mad cap daring and timid caution that sits well with your man and maybe, sets the tone for the eclectic mix of nature and nonsense that I hope these chronicals will become.

As for unwelcome lunch appointments, I can't claim that I  have seen any Weasels or Stoats in the vicinity of their home (yet!), but Owls, Sparrowhawk, Kestrel, Foxes and Mink are certainly present. So our heros 18 inch dash from cover to grab spilt seed from the bird tables, must feel like a lifetimes exposure to natures paparazzi. Next time you overexposed celebrities, are complaining about the eyes of the lens on you, remember, those flashing eyes are only after big bucks - not big bites.

Then there are the bully boy Grey Squirrels, with their polished politicians personas looking like peanut butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, whilst hoovering up as much bird food they can find, before they start on the real thing come spring.

Now, before I get labelled a Grey hating radical and no, I am not advocating eating anything that's ostensibly cute because it's in oversuppy (although lamb is quite a good place to start if so inclined), I do have a concern that on my local nature reserve the Greys are starting to outnumber the trees and sooner or later this is going to impact on the birdlife's ability to rear young successfully. Answers on a post card (or menu) please.

Finally for this opening gambit - FRUSTRATION - having spent the last 5 months getting a flat woodgrained section on my bum, whilst waiting for a good photo opportunity of a Sparrowhawk in front of the forementioned Woodland hide, today a young female made 6 unsuccessful attacks on the birds around the feeder points about 10 feet in front of me, without this partculat numpty managing to get the Nikon lined up on target once. Worse still it actually touched down on the new feeding table for a few seconds whilst "Simon King" here tried to work out how he had accidentally reset his focus points off centre.