When Birds Watch You Back

Last weekend, it was the RSPB’s Big Garden Bird Watch – the biggest citizen science project.

In previous years we have struggled to fit it in amid the bustle of a January weekend.  This year, however, we were still in isolation following Covid, and it seemed like the epitome of excitement.

We picked an hour towards the end of the day when we knew the little chaps would be mobbing our birdfeeders trying to consume enough calories to see them through a long winter night. 

We spotted most of our regulars – blue tits, great tits, long-tailed tits, coal tits, dunnocks, robins, goldfinches, woodpigeons and blackbirds.

None of our more unusual visitors surfaced – the nuthatches, woodpeckers and goldcrests must have appeared on somebody else’s entry.

However, the species we saw most was our own doves.  And we also were not prepared for their reaction.  When they saw us sitting in front of the French windows, they came and watched us right back.

We could only guess at their conversation,

‘The two regulars are there – the old ones.’

‘Yes, wonder if we’ll see any of the brightly-plumaged young ones today.’

‘Doesn’t look like it – they must be in a different house today.’

‘That’s always the way – we never see anything out of the ordinary when we do the Big House Human Watch.’

A Good Time For Covid?

Nigel and I have been laid low by Covid, presumably the Omicron variant.

Since I have been working in secondary schools and he has attended the odd meeting in central London, this highly contagious variant did seem unavoidable.

Long country walks are something we consider essential to happiness, but at the moment we are confined indoors.

So I have been consoling myself that if there was one good time of year to be trapped at home, then this is it – ten dry, cold, overcast January days, with daylight fleeting early.

The very countryside has appeared dormant.

Yet as I have begun to feel better, I can see how wrong I have been.

Whenever the sun shows its face, I hear birdsong, led by our robins, but including a swelling number of other species.  Blue tits are showing a great deal of interest in our nest boxes.

Our doves have begun to vie for the best nest sites in our dove cote.

Each night, foxes rend the air with their barks.

Even the hedgehog which we have been fostering this winter seems to have no interest in hibernating.

So when I finally get the all-clear to leave the house, the first intimations of spring will be awaiting me with open arms.

Video of Nigel feeding robin by Carenza

Blue tit photo by david Griffiths on Unsplash

Pre-holiday tension

We had been planning a trip to Bamburgh – a chance to combine a holiday with our grown-up children with visiting Nigel’s family in Northumberland.

A week on the English coast seemed like a very down-to-earth option.

But in the ten days beforehand I realised the holiday was in fact a preposterous proposition.

How on earth could six of us, including three from London and one from Edinburgh hope to escape the surging new wave of Covid?

And even if we escaped Covid itself, how could we possibly avoid getting pinged and told to self isolate?

I began to have a mental picture of Bamburgh Castle surrounded by clouds – we had built a castle in the air.

The solution should have been to undertake as little social contact as possible for ten days before the holiday.

But we all had various long-standing commitments - in Nigel’s case, a trip into central London.

A couple of days before the holiday, Nigel sounded a bit wheezy. 

‘It’s hayfever!’

The next day, still wheezy.

‘My hayfever has triggered my asthma.’

Finally, he took a test.  I had so many parts of my anatomy crossed that I nearly strained myself.

It was negative.

And miraculously, all the youngsters were also in the clear.

I still can’t believe we all got to Bamburgh!

And the other thing I can’t believe is how quickly the long-awaited week rushed by.

Photo shows us with David & Carolyn - Pascoe's godparents

 

 

 

Easter bunny - a new generation

Generally at our house the Easter bunny lays a trail of little pastel-coloured  eggs around the garden for younger members of the family to find. 

Since the offspring have got older and wiser, the eggs now have to be fair trade and vegan (Oxfam supplies – if you’re wondering) and the pretty foil is now carefully recycled rather than being turned into a butterfly wing collage.

However, this year, the Easter bunny was locked down miles away from younger family members.  

The bunny posted a few eggs she had obtained before lockdown.

Pascoe ingeniously provided his own hunt by standing in his sitting room, throwing the eggs over his shoulder, then going to look for them.

However, the Bunny was worried about Carenza who particularly values this tradition (and indeed the chocloate it brings).

However, she needn’t have worried.  The family has a new Easter Bunny who stepped up to the mark, obtained Easter eggs and hid them around the flat for his sister.

He even wore a set of pink ears while doing so – surely beyond the call of duty.

Our usual Easter bunny is certainly going to have to up her game next year.

Back to my roots.

I guess that a lot of us are using this period of isolation to experiment with our...ahem...grooming routine.

Probably if we were to match selfies taken right now against those from a month back, it would be evident that the nation is on average much hairier today.

For myself, I have been hijacked by spring cleaning and have waxed the wooden floors, but not my legs. 

Legs are redundant anyway, since Zoom took over our world.

At least one member of my family appears to be trying out a beard when I spot him on WhatsApp.

For myself, I wondered whether this might be a convenient period to transition to grey hair. 

However, half an inch in, I got cold feet and dyed it again.

It seems I feel as young as my hair dye and not yet as old as my roots.

 

Donald Ducking It

I was on a Zoom call with Nigel and the children last Sunday.  Each of us was present as head and shoulders.  Pascoe asked,

“Anybody Donald Ducking it?”

That sounded rude.  “What on earth do you mean?”

“Think about Donald Duck, Mum.  What does he wear?”

“A sailor hat and a sailor top….and not much else.”

“Precisely – he doesn’t have any trousers. Now we’re all working by videoconference, nobody knows what you’re wearing under the desk.”

He was right – I’d put on a respectable shirt but beneath the table lurked ripped gardening trousers.

Since then, I have taken full advantage of this partial view.

On Monday, I went to work in the unflattering purple jeggings that I was a fool to buy, even if they were a knock-down bargain.

Today I am sporting the slim-fit black jeans with a silver snake-skin pattern which Carenza persuaded me to buy in a fit of overconfidence that she had on my behalf.

And guess what -  none of the pupils or coworkers I’ve met with on videoconferencing has said a thing.

So for tomorrow, I have got out my red sparkly leggings – seems a waste only to wear them on Christmas Day.

An important social event

After all our social events went online it was nice to have a real one last night.

The eight o clock call to go out on doorsteps and cheer for the NHS and health workers was the biggest thing to happen in my street since John and Margaret’s Christmas drinks party.

I unearthed my last four party poppers from a little-known drawer in the Welsh dresser which had not been opened since the days long-ago days of teen parties.  (Another turning-out task, I noted.)

Our cul-de-sac is a quiet one, not given to hullaballoo.  But we managed a reedy, self-conscious cheer.

And four party popper bangs which, in retrospect, may not have been a good idea.  It probably sounded as if Nigel and I had barricaded ourselves in with guns and were defending our well-stocked freezer against raiders.

We had a yelled conversation with John and Margaret opposite as the icy breeze swirled around us.

And although we said very little, really, it made us realise how lovely it is to catch up with neighbours, the people we rub along with each day and whom we miss when we don’t see.