Dear Readers, July seems very far away from my current position, sitting in my office as the rain pours down and the sky is a uniform grey colour, but looking at these photos reminds me that it will arrive, eventually. It’s a month when many birds and other animals are leaving home for the first time, when bees and butterflies are on the wing and when flowering plants have reached a visual crescendo. And, just as many humans and their offspring go on holiday, so many living things are getting ready to slow down.

Things to Do

• Well, lovely Readers, what could be nicer on a hot summer afternoon than to find a shady spot and get stuck into a good book? On 28th July the shortlist for the James Cropper Wainwright Prize is announced – the longlist comes out on 23rd June, but as that includes 12 Nature Writing titles, 12 Conservation Writing titles and 12 Children’s Nature/Conservation Writing titles that might be a big ask for even the most dedicated reader. I have discovered some fantastic books in previous years: last year I was especially impressed by Dan Saladino’s ‘Eating to Extinction’ and Dave Goulson’s ‘Insect Apocalypse’ in the Conservation section, and ‘Shadowlands’ by Matthew Green and ‘Otherlands’ by Thomas Halliday in the Nature Writing section. ‘Nature Writing’ is a broad school, but it’s great to see the sheer variety of titles and diversity of people who are writing about the natural world these days, and who care so passionately about it.
• The RHS Hampton Court Flower Show is on from 4th to 9th July – lots of people who know about such things say that it’s a much more pleasant experience than Chelsea Flower Show which can be extremely crowded and difficult to get around. And I do believe that there’s the chance to get lots of plants very cheaply on the last day of the show. Just saying :-). If you live a bit further north there’s the Tatton Park Flower Show in Knutsford, Cheshire, from 19th to 23rd July.
• If you live in the West Country, Rosemoor Gardens (another RHS Garden based in Torrington, Devon) is holding two bat walks, one on Friday 7th July from 8.30 to 11 p.m, and one on Friday 21st July (same times), and very interesting they sound too.

Plants for Pollinators

The RHS suggests roses as their key plant for July, but as we know, not all roses are created equal. The single-flowered varieties can be abuzz all summer, and birds love the rosehips on some of the more ornamental varieties, such as Rosa rugosa. However, a big attraction of roses is that their leaves are used by leaf-cutter bees – the first time I realised that the UK has seven species of these bees I was stunned to think that we could have anything so exotic. Leaf-cutter bees have also taken a shine to some stray enchanter’s nightshade in my garden, though, as you can see…

You really are spoilt for choice in July, but here are some things that work for me.

Buddleia. Yes I know we’re not supposed to plant it, but mine planted themselves. I have dwarf buddleia in the back garden (which grows to about 9 feet all ahem) and the normal stuff in the front, which grows to about 15 feet tall and is most unruly and badly behaved, but is also forgiving of whatever pruning I attempt. Here is a selection of visitors.

Teasel. They say that once you’ve planted it, you’ll never be without it. But why would you want to be, when it’s this popular? And hopefully the finches will come in the winter.

Hemp agrimony. Another messy plant, but my oh my is it popular with pollinators, not just bees and butterflies but hoverflies and spiders too.

The RHS also recommends lavender (not the ‘bunny-ears’ French variety in my experience), angelica (indeed), marjoram (easy the most popular plant in my windowboxes), sea holly (which I’ve never tried but looks as if it should work very well) and purple toadflax (which I’m trying this year, having seen how popular it was as a ‘weed’ in Dorset.

Bird Behaviour

In his book ‘The Secret Lives of Garden Birds’, Dominic Couzens says that July is the ‘month of goodbyes’, and for so many birds the breeding season is coming to an end, and they will soon be, literally, ’empty nesters’. This is the most challenging period for newly fledged birds, as they fend for themselves for the first time. Still, some parents are still diligently looking after their youngsters, as was the case with this family of sparrows in the garden in July 2021.

And these crows, seen from the dogwalkers’ café on Hampstead Heath.

 

Some birds are already pretty independent, like the young green woodpecker below.

Interestingly, Couzens mentions that in birds that have more than one brood in the year, such as blackbirds and robins, the parents often split the parental care after the young have been out in the world for a few days, with one parent taking sole charge of a particular number of youngsters. This means that the female has more time to feed up and prepare for her second brood, while not entirely neglecting the ones that have already left the nest.

This fledgling blackbird was being fed by his father…

And it’s impossible to say who was feeding this young robin, as the adults can’t be sexed by appearance. I was very glad to see him/her in July 2020, right in the middle of lockdown.

Plants in Flower

Too many to list, but here are a few favourites…

Wild carrot is gradually replacing the hogweed in the open places in the cemetery in July. It’s probably my favourite umbellifer (though I also love angelica. Decisions, decisions!)

The creamy smell of privet is coming from hedges everywhere, and very popular it is with hoverflies

All over the cemetery, the plants are in flower.  There’s  catsear…

ribwort plantain…

lesser knapweed…

and St John’s wort…

yarrow…

spear thistle…

self-heal

and, on some of the sunnier graves, there’s reflexed stonecrop..

and on others there’s white stonecrop…

and on yet others, there’s Caucasian stonecrop.

What a cornucopia! Truly, July is a wonderful time for a wander.

Other Things to Look/Listen Out For

• Moths and butterflies of all kinds – in London we had lots of hummingbird hawk moths and also a positive outbreak of Jersey Tigers.

• This is the time of year when you might first see young foxes in the garden or, more likely, hear them wrestling and fighting with that characteristic ‘gekkering’ sound. The poor exhausted adults will often have had enough at this time of year, and will start being more reluctant to feed their youngsters. They may even start to drive them away. This is the time of year when you are most likely to encounter dead foxes, most of whom will have been run down by cars, easily the biggest threat to the animals in the city.
• Make the most of the swifts circling and screaming in the skies this month, as they will soon be making the return journey to Africa.
• The full moon this month is on 3rd July, and is known as the Wyrt Moon (from Wort, meaning herb) or the Mead Moon. It’s the first of four supermoons in 2023, which means it should be noticeably bigger and brighter than other moons.

Holidays and Celebrations

• 8th and 9th July are the days for the Women’s and Men’s Singles Finals at Wimbledon, for you tennis lovers out there
• 15th July is St Swithuns Day – if it rains on St Swithun’s Bridge in Winchester today (Swithun was Anglo-Saxon Bishop of Winchester), it is supposed to rain for the next forty days and nights so fingers crossed (although if last year’s drought conditions in some parts of the country were anything to go by, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing)
• 18th July is Islamic New Year (Al Hijra) which starts at the sighting of the crescent moon
• 23rd July is the birthday of Haile Selassie, and is one of the holiest days of the Rastafarian calendar
• 26th July is Tisha B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning, which commences at sundown

 

 

Dear Readers, this is my favourite Christmas video. I think even the mildly arachnophobic might like it (after all, peacock spiders are about as far from those hairy-legged critters who live in the shed as I am from a marmoset).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYFQQB9vqPw

Peacock spiders are from the jumping spider family – remember this little chap? This is a fencepost jumping spider (Marpissa muscosa) who was living under the stairs on some deckchairs. He isn’t as colourful as the peacock spiders (who all live in Australia by the way, and are only the size of a grain of rice) but he is pretty cute all the same.

And if you are after some proper biological background on the peacock spiders, there’s a clip from a BBC documentary below. Beware, it features dancing, sex and violence, so it all depends what you enjoy at the festive season.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qkzwG2lLPc

And so, have a wonderful day, whatever you’re up to. Tomorrow, I’ll start my look forward to 2023, but for now, I wish you whatever you hope for most, today and in the days to come.

Dear Readers, as it is Christmas Eve I thought I’d share some good news with you, to take you into the festive season.

1. Not only has my cough finally gone (after almost six weeks) but my chest x-ray has come back clear. Hooray! And just in time for me to squeeze in a few visits with my lovely friends, who I have missed to bits over the past few weeks.
2. As I was trying to catch up with my course work for my OU degree, I looked out of the window to see the male sparrowhawk in the photo on the roof of the house opposite. They are occasional visitors, and whenever they appear they are announced by a flurry of terror from the local collared doves and starlings. This chap sat stolidly for five minutes, looking around, before diving into the back garden of number 17. I have no idea who was lucky, him or the doves.
3. We have been holding collections on the street for the dustbin collectors and for the poor postie – workers for Royal Mail have been on strike on and off for the past month or so, and of course they aren’t paid when they’re striking, so it will be a very lean Christmas for many of them. Our local guys are always friendly and helpful, and I hope that they win.
4. In spite of everything – strikes, rain, no money, the threat of power cuts – there is a definite feeling of Christmas cheer. It’s the first Christmas for two years where things have been anything like ‘normal’ and it’s clear that families are getting together in numbers that haven’t been possible for ages. I am keeping my fingers crossed that the flu, covid, RSV and various other bugs don’t run rampant, but I’m also sure that being able to meet up is good for people’s bruised mental health.
5. I have actually made a clementine cake, and I will be distributing it to various people tomorrow. If you haven’t tried the recipe yet have a bash if you have any clementines left over. I promise that it’s the easiest cake that you’ll ever make.
6. My ageing cat has returned from the vet with perfect blood pressure, claws clipped without anyone losing an eye, and at her ideal weight. If current trends continue, I  fully expect her to be too fat when I go again in six months time, but for now all is perfectly poised.
7. I am learning about Nutrient Flux in natural systems with particular attention to fungi, and am finding it absolutely fascinating. No doubt I will be posting about it soon!
8. I have booked in a Garden Centre with my pal J on my birthday in January. I have no idea if said Garden Centre will actually have any plants, but I am sure we can find something to buy, even if it’s just a cactus. Plus, they do the best hummous, olive and pepper sandwiches you could ever want.
9. My husband and I have both bought one another books for Christmas. We do this by the simple method of going to a bookshop, picking out things that we like, and then each one hands their ‘pile’ to the other one, and tries to forget what they chose. It’s always something of a surprise by the time the Big Day rolls around. I have a sneaking suspicion that this year we’ve each bought one another the same book – we don’t have a lot of overlapping interests, but climate change/history/popular science can throw up some books that we both take a shine to. Let’s see on Sunday.
10. And finally, having been under the weather for longer than I usually am has given me the chance to really appreciate feeling better, and to feel so grateful for all the support that I’ve had from you, lovely Readers. I hope that you have a great Christmas, if you’re celebrating, and that you have a happy, healthy and peaceful 2023.

Dear Readers, on Christmas Eve what bird could be more appropriate for my Red List piece than the Grey Partridge? It looks like such a chubby, demure bird as it goes about its business, which is mostly collecting innumerable insects from the stubbly fields of the UK and right across Europe and Asia. It is unlikely to be found in a pear tree, but it has somehow become synonymous with winter, maybe because it’s more visible at this time of year, especially in snowy conditions when its beautiful mottled plumage is not such good camouflage.

At this point I hardly need to tell you what has caused the decline of this bird in the UK, which amounts to about 85% in the past twenty-five years. Insecticides have reduced the insect numbers upon which the bird depends to raise its young, who need a huge quantity of high protein food in order to grow and become independent as quickly as possible – in Red List 2022, Jake Fiennes, who wrote the article on this species, estimates that each chick needs about 2000 insects per day. As the brood size can be up to 20 chicks, that’s a lot of insects, but clearly no more than the land used to support when a shoot in 1887 in Hampshire killed over 4000 grey partridges in four days. There used to be millions of grey partridges, but today the numbers are estimated at about 75,000.

In Red Sixty Seven (the precursor to this year’s ‘Into The Red’ and also published by the British Trust for Ornithology) Mark Cocker writes most eloquently about what the call of the grey partridge means to him. First, have a listen to the call below (recorded by Simon Elliott in North Yorkshire)

Cocker writes:

‘Partridge calls were part of the soundtrack of my childhood. It is a bird vocalisation like no other, except perhaps that other instructive casualty of agricultural change, the Corncrake. It is minimal, mechanical, un-avian. It has a creaking quality said to resemble the sound of an old gate swinging on rusty hinges, with emphasis on the opening portion followed by a long trailing slur: “Ké-e-e-e-e-e-e-r, Ké-e-e-e-e-e-e-r, Ké-e-e-e-e-e-e-r”. Over and over. 

No transcription, however, can give a sense of its wonderfully bowed, echoic, spartan, pleading, memory-enriched quality, nor of the power of the sound as night falls on those late-winter hills, to merge with that light and that air to awaken a synaesthetic emotional effect. It is as if the dusk itself has found voice. It seemed to me then like a bigger door, a larger opening, a newer life were all being prised open by the bird’s yearning note. If I hear one now, my heart aches with the joy of it. And the sad remembrance‘.

For me, this conjures up a picture of that bleak landscape, low clouds over the ploughed fields, and a bevy of small round birds making their way across the ground. Then one of them raises their head, and this extraordinary sound comes forth. Let’s hope that we are all lucky enough to hear them as they return to a healthy population once again.

 

Dear Readers, I hope that you’ll excuse me waxing lyrical about the ring-necked parakeet again, but today I observed some quite interesting behaviour. This bird had popped down to pick off some peanuts again – I think it’s a youngish male, as I’m pretty sure I can see traces of pink on the neck (only the males have the ‘ring-neck’). As soon as a parakeet appears, everybody else withdraws.

Anyhow, the parakeet withdrew to the whitebeam tree and sat there serenely.

And then I heard the magpie approaching. It landed some considerable distance up  the whitebeam, but seemed curious about the parakeet – the magpie was looking at it with interest, and uttering little clacking sounds, which I associate, rightly or wrongly, with the bird being both curious and nervous. The parakeet looked at it quizzically, but continued to sit.

The magpie came a bit closer, and sounded more agitated. You can just about make out a black and white blob at the top right of the tree.

And then they both sat there for a while, the magpie scratching itself and ‘talking’ to itself, the parakeet looking supremely unbothered. Magpies are larger than parakeets, but I think parakeets are even feistier. Anyhow, it was the magpie who blinked and flew away, so no feathers flew. When two birds as intelligent as these meet, it’s always interesting (to me at least) to see what happens. if you’ve spotted any encounters between parakeets and other species, do let me know.

I am reminded also of the day that a sparrowhawk killed a bird in the garden, and was promptly mugged not only by a magpie, but also by a squirrel. Nature never ceases to amaze.

Dear Readers, is there any fruit more redolent of Christmas than a clementine? Easy to peel, even for little sticky toddler hands, sweet, (usually) seedless and just the right size to stick in the toe of a Christmas stocking, my local greengrocer sells whole crates of them with the leaves still attached in December. I sometimes wish that they were around in October when it’s Halloween – surely one of these would be better for Trick or Treaters than the endless chocolate?

Clementines are a cross between a willowleaf mandarin orange (Citrus x deliciosa) and a sweet orange (Citrus x sinensis), and are named for Clément Rodier, a French missionary who first discovered and propagated the cultivar in Algeria. He ran an orphanage in Misserghin in Algeria and, while working in the institution’s citrus grove, found an interesting wild tree growing amongst some thorns. He made some grafts from this tree, and the result was the clementine, which proved to be very popular with the orphans and with the other Holy Brothers. Brother Clément died in 1904, and is buried in Misserghin.

Now, it’s very easy to get overloaded with clementines if your forward planning isn’t what it might be, and if your husband is very keen on them, so I have discovered the clementine cake, which is now a regular festive favourite. There cannot be an easier cake. Boil up four or five clementines until they are soft, and remove any hard stems or (heaven forfend) pips. Mix them with ground almonds, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Pop in the oven until done. If the urge comes upon you, you can make an icing of icing sugar and lemon or orange juice, but seriously, it’s delicious without it – it reminds me of one of those Middle-Eastern syrup cakes, though without the addition of syrup, and it will keep for a good week, though I doubt it will last that long. The recipe is a Nigella original, and you can find the whole thing here.

Clementines are apparently less troubled by cold conditions than many other citrus varieties, but today most of them come from hot regions such Spain and North Africa. However, China tops the chart for the production of all of the little citrus varieties (tangerines, mandarins, clementines and satsumas) with a whopping 17.2 million tonnes. Most of our clementines in the UK seem to come from Spain and Morocco these days.

A single clementine will provide 59% of your daily Vitamin C requirement, so tuck in!

And finally, I loved this poem by Wendy Cope so much (thank you again, sllgatsby, my poetry guru) that I wanted to share it with all of you. I think it captures those ordinary moments that somehow seem to burst with unexpected joy.

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange–
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and
Dave-
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

~Wendy Cope

Dear Readers, I first published this in 2020 in the middle of the pandemic, but this has been a difficult year for many people that I know and love. I can think of at least four friends who have lost people close to them in 2022, and there will be many more for whom Christmas, Chanukah and other celebrations will bring feelings of sadness and loss. I am holding all of you in my heart, and wishing you peace, and grace. 

Dear Readers, it’s 6.30 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the office, listening to the thin, sweet song of a robin. Outside it’s still dark as pitch, but a runner has trudged past, taking advantage of the quiet street to jog up the middle of the road. And I have been thinking about Christmas, and how different it will be this year, not just for me but for many of us. This is my first Christmas as an orphan, and the idea is taking some getting used to.

Until a few years ago, the weeks before Christmas were frantically busy for me as I tried to get everything in place for Mum and Dad’s visit. We already had the stairlift so that they could get upstairs, but there was the commode and the reclining chair to get, the temporary registration of the pair of them with my doctor, not to mention the food and the presents and the cleaning. The wheelchair had to be rented and popped into the hall, ready for action. The night before they arrived I would be nervously eyeing up everyone who parked outside our house – we don’t have a car, but it’s a long tradition that you can ‘save’ a parking space by popping a couple of wheelie bins into the road, and with Mum and Dad unable to walk very far it could save a lot of worry.

And then they’d arrive, usually driven down by my brother, and the work would really begin. Everything had to be perfect, of course, just as it had to be perfect when Mum used to be in charge. I wonder why I didn’t learn from the way that she often had a migraine on Christmas Day from sheer stress? I remember one day when Mum was in a particular tizzy about something. Dad was sitting in the armchair with a purple paper hat slightly askew on his head, a gin and tonic in one hand and the cat on his lap.

‘Syb’, he said, patting the chair next to him, ‘Just come and sit down for Gawd’s sake. The brussel sprouts can wait for half an hour’.

‘No they can’t!’ she said, and burst into tears.

And so by the time Christmas was over, Mum was worn to a bit of a frazzle. So maybe it’s no surprise that I remember the days after the big event with particular fondness – the days of eating cold turkey, hot potatoes and pickle, playing Trivial Pursuit and watching the obligatory James Bond film with Dad.

And, strangely enough, it’s not the big things that I remember about the Christmases that I hosted either.

It’s the afternoons when Mum and Dad both had a doze, Dad in his recliner, Mum on the sofa, both of them snoozing along peacefully.

It’s the morning that the great spotted woodpecker turned up on the feeder and I gave Mum my binoculars so that she could see him properly.

It’s the night that the International Space Station went by on Christmas Eve, and Mum and I watched it go sailing past.

This year will be the first Christmas in a long, long time where I don’t have anywhere to go, or anyone apart from my husband to cater for. I am lucky to have him, I know.

The losses pile up, and the difference between the Christmas gatherings on the television advertisements and my quiet, subdued bittersweet Christmas could not be starker.

But I know that I am not alone – for so many of the people reading this, there will be an empty space at the Christmas table that can never be filled. And so this is to say that I see you, and I’m holding you in my heart. Grief is the tax that we pay for loving people deeply, but  bereavement is a bitter path to walk, and attention must be paid to what we’re feeling at this time if we’re to bear it. There is a time for distraction, and a time for weeping, and only you will know which you need at any given time, but my advice would be to make room for both.

And unlike so many, many people, I don’t have agonising choices to make about who to see and how. I have not spent the year worrying myself sick about elderly relatives that I can’t see, children who haven’t been able to go to school, or who have gone and then been sent home because of a Covid outbreak. I’m still in work, and still housed. I see you too, trying to make this very different Christmas work because other people are depending on you. Please be kind to yourselves. The brussel sprouts will wait for thirty minutes while you have a cup of tea and watch something ridiculous on the television.

Outside there’s the slightest hint of a lightening sky, and the robin has stopped singing, duty done for another morning. In a few days time we’ll reach the winter solstice, the longest night for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, and the light will gradually come back, until one day we wake up at our usual time and hear the dawn chorus, not a solitary robin. The world turns whether we want it to or not, the bulbs are already starting to stretch and yawn in their loamy beds and life will carry on. Let’s take things both lightly and with deep seriousness, with a sense of fun and with a sense that what we do matters, because it does, more now than ever.

 

 

Dear Readers, there is always a bit of cognitive dissonance when I see a bright green ring-necked parakeet in the garden when the temperature is below zero, but that’s to forget that, in their native India, the mornings can be bitterly cold. And, of course, these birds are the ultimate adaptors, making the most of whatever is available, whatever the weather. I was hoping that this chap (for chap he was, with a bright pink ring around his neck) would move further up the tree into the sunshine, but he remained stubbornly in the dark bit. He had been polishing off the peanuts for at least fifteen minutes, and then flew up to try his hand with the whitebeam buds, which he was methodically plucking off and chewing, though from the way he was blinking and had turned his head quizzically to one side I suspect they weren’t altogether to his liking.

Anyhow, away he went, though I have no doubt he’ll be back tomorrow. You can almost set your watch by when they arrive, they are birds with a very strict routine.

Not so the redwings. They stop over in the whitebeam for a few minutes at a time, but all the hawthorn berries and rowan berries are already gone, so they move on. It always gives me a thrill to see these winter visitors, and today they, unlike the parakeet, obliged by sitting at the very top of the tree in the sunshine. They were all fluffed out, catching the air between their feathers so that they could warm it up. I did wonder about their poor cold feet, and the RSPB website tells me that this is why birds sometimes stand on one leg, so they can warm up their feet alternately. If you see a bird that is hunkered down with its tummy covering both feet, it’s probably trying to warm them up.

For some birds, such as ducks and gulls, a further adaptation is utilised – the blood entering the feet is in blood vessels that pass very close to those that bring the cold blood back from the feet. In this way, the blood leaving is slightly warmed up so that the body doesn’t get chilled quite as much as it would otherwise, which saves much-needed energy and evens things out a bit. One reason why humans get frostbite is that the blood is withdrawn from the extremities to protect our vital internal organs, and this can happen to birds too, but fortunately it’s rare. And I was rather moved by this story of a teacher in Wisconsin who, on hearing that a local Muscovy duck had lost both his feet to frostbite, used a 3-D printer to manufacture some new ones, which the duck appears to have taken to like, ahem, a duck to water.

Now, I have been thinking a bit about what to do for the Twelve Days of Christmas this year, and, being only too happy to give 2022 the boot, I thought it might be nice to look forward to what’s coming up next year – what should be blooming when, what the skies are doing, what natural events should be happening and if there’s anything special going on in each month. I often forget that there’s meant to be a lunar eclipse, or to look out for particular things that should be in flower (though climate change is making that a tad difficult to predict). It will make it a little bit  UK centric, but I shall give that some thought. Anyhow, any thoughts most welcome!

Dear Readers, after my post yesterday several readers got in touch to wish me a speedy recovery, and one, sllgatsby, reminded me of this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, which I think sums up the imaginative world of childhood, and the mixed blessings of being sick.

And although this is not quite to the theme, as we approach the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death, this poem reminds me of those times when I was older and we would work together on a meal, peeling potatoes, preparing the dreaded brussels sprouts, top and tailing some beans, usually in silence. We’d be lost in our own thoughts until something splashed, or was particularly gnarled, or reminded someone (usually Mum) of something slightly rude. Seamus Heaney, as usual, captures all this and more.

From ‘Clearances’ (In Memoriam M.K.H 1911- 1984) by Seamus Heaney

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives—
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

 

Dear Readers, I am on the 28th Day of my cough from hell. You’ll be glad to know that I’m now on antibiotics (though I loathe the things) and even had a chest X-Ray at our local hospital yesterday, which was a fun experience. Somebody put me in a small room and told me to get into the traditionally attractive Hospital Gown. And there I sat, wondering why I’d worn socks with a hole in the toe, when I heard an ethereal voice calling my name from the main waiting room. I wrapped my gown around me, stomped out but there was no medical person there. This happened several times, and finally the X-Ray technician burst in with another lady.

“No one told me you were here!” she said. “I thought you’d disappeared!”

Literally five minutes later my X-Ray was done and I was on my way back to get dressed. What a shame for the delay, because otherwise I swear it would have been the fastest appointment ever. The NHS is a truly wonderful thing when it’s working.

Anyhow, I don’t think the 20 minute wait for a bus in both directions helped, and today my cough is tighter and meaner than before. I am cancelling Christmas as we speak. Bah humbug doesn’t really cover it.

Anyhow, I wanted to get to some photos of the splendid bird life in the garden but it refused to cooperate (as you can see from the photo above). We’ve had redwings and fieldfares, blackbirds and jackdaws, assorted finches and a full house of tits. Actually, I did get some photos of the great tit. Enjoy.

 

You’re welcome.In other news, the hebe in the garden next door, which was already a bit wonky, looks like it’s going to precipitate itself into the pond. It’s the shrub leaning at a 45 degree angle to the left.

I am rather moved that it is still flowering though, bless it.

And so another day ends with me cancelling all my social activities for tomorrow because I think I just need to rest. My husband is making me various combinations of lemon, ginger and honey, I have bed socks and a hot water bottle, and so things could be a whole lot worse, so don’t worry. And at least I won’t have to brave the icy pavements for a few days, it’s like a skating rink around here. Stay safe and warm, UK peeps! There are buds on the whitebeam, so at least the spring is on the way.