Dear Readers, I think many of us were in shock after the US election results came in – I know that I had dreaded this result, but managed to convince myself that Harris stood a chance. What a mess. I am so sick of living in ‘interesting times’. My heart goes out to my American friends, with the threats to reproductive rights, the racism, the attacks on LGBT rights and the climate change denial. We will feel the effects here in the UK too, with the impacts on the war in Ukraine and possibly on other parts of Europe, particularly the Baltic states, with the potential for the break up of NATO, plus the risks associated with a major nuclear power governed by someone who is so random, and who has such thugs behind him. But still, we go on. And as usual, there is some solace in poetry, and if you have any that have helped or are helping at the moment, let me know and I’ll share them here.

I liked this one, by American poet Ada Limón.

Instructions on Not Giving Up
Ada Limón
1976 –

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

And this one, by Brendan Kennelly

“Begin”

Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of the light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

And I love this Maya Angelou classic, so hopeful, so defiant.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou
1928 –
2014

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

And finally, this one. I love, love, love this poem. Sometimes it’s all about keeping on keeping on.

Optimism by Jane Hirschfield

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs – all this resinous, unretractable earth.

Dear Readers, following on from my post yesterday about Kew Gardens trying to future-proof its tree collection, today I’m looking at the future of street trees. Paul Wood, author of London’s Street Trees, has excellent form on  this subject – in 2019 he suggested that the Bee-bee Tree (Tetradium daniellii) might become a popular planting in London, and so it has – this Korean tree has flowers that are abuzz with bees in June and July, followed by masses of berries. You can now see it in Bermondsey, Islington and Hammersmith and Fulham, to name but a few spots.

In his latest edition, Paul Wood bets on four species that might become popular in London, due to drought-resistance and tolerance for all the usual ills of urban trees (pollution, traffic, shallow root systems etc). First up is the Pecan Tree, originally from the southern states of the US – from the photos it looks as if it can grow into a very fine tree, but it’s probably one for broad avenues rather than side roads. You can see it in the photograph at the start of the blog, and there is apparently at least one in London already, on Pitfield Street, Hoxton.

Next is the Katsura tree (Cercidiphyllum japonicum), a tree with bronze buds that ripen to crisp green in the spring, and fantastic autumn foliage, which apparently has a biscuity fragrance. Plus, very impressive bark! What’s not to like? You can see this tree in a few places already, including Highbury in North London.

Wood’s third tree(s) are Chinese or American Yellow-wood (Cladrastis sinensis or Cladrastis kentuckea). At the moment both species can grow happily in the UK, but with warmer temperatures and milder winters they may well flower, which would be quite something. These are actually members of the Fabaceae or bean family, which would be obvious if they did flower – just look at those leguminous blooms! There is currently at least one of these trees in Wood Green.

And finally, a South American tree, the  Maiten (Maytenus boaria) – an evergreen tree with a weeping habit. Wood thinks that it could be an ideal street tree – relatively small and hardy. Apparently a trio of the trees have recently appeared in Highgate, just around the corner from me, so when I’m a bit more mobile I must hobble over to have a look. The Maiten is in the same group of trees as the Spindles (Euonymus), another splendid small tree that I’m surprised doesn’t pop up more often as a street tree. Maybe I should start making my own list!

It is very interesting to see how much more varied street trees are becoming in London, and probably in other parts of the UK. On my road alone, we’ve suddenly acquired some Crape Myrtles, a Hibiscus and several Amelanchiors (including the one that fell over outside my house). Local residents are increasingly being invited to sponsor street trees, which is an interesting idea. What’s going on where you live? Have you noticed any new species? And how well are your street trees doing?

 

Dear Readers, when you work with trees you have to have a long-term strategy, and never more so than in these changing times. At Kew, a recent study showed that up to 54 percent of the trees currently growing in the botanical gardens could be at risk by 2090, through a combination of rising temperatures, changes in rainfall patterns, biosecurity hazards and potential flooding. Some of our most familiar trees could be affected, including silver birch, horse chestnut, Scots pine, ash, larch, alder, oaks (both sessile and pedunculate) and even holly. Some of these trees will survive further north than their current range, and for some species there may be more resilient genotypes in other parts of the world, which have already adapted to hotter conditions. However, Kew is taking no chances, and may start to grow trees that are better adapted to the weather that we’re facing. Here are just a few of them.

First up, Iberian Alder (Alnus lusitanica). This is closely related to the Common Alder, but is more heat-resistant, and the hope is that many of the animals that currently rely upon it will make the jump to this species – it is often smothered in blue and great tits feeding from its cones in autumn  and winter.  Iberian Alder  could also prove to be a resilient street tree, though at the moment  Paul Wood (of London’s Street Trees) points out that a lot of Italian Alder (Alnus cordata) is being planted, even though it’s (whisper it) a bit of a boring tree outside of catkin season.

You can already see that Horse Chestnut is under stress, with a variety of insect and fungal attacks happening every year. Kew is thinking about using Indian Horse Chestnut instead – it seems to be more resilient to temperature, and the leaf miners aren’t so fond of it.

Scots Pine is clearly going to have a struggle, being a plant of open windy places with cold winters, but Kew is looking at a couple of possible pines, including the Stone Pine (Pinus pinea), which has a few examples in the roundabout outside Archway Station if you happen to be passing. The local pigeons seem to love the shade and can usually be seen in large numbers passing the time of day. This is where pine nuts come from, so maybe the pigeons are on  to something.

As all of our oak species are most likely going to be pushed hard as temperatures go up, Kew is looking at some more resilient species – while the oldest, best established trees will hopefully live out their life spans, it makes a lot of sense to grow related species that, again, some of our insects, fungi, galls etc may be able to use. One very unusual tree is the Holly Oak (Quercus baloot),  with leaves that look, well, like holly. As holly is also threatened maybe this tree could stand in for both (though of course for animals that feed on a plant it’s about much more than how it looks, ditto fungi.)

Holly Oak is an Indian tree, but another candidate is Quercus urbani, which is Mexican and is drought and  heat tolerant.

Quercus pannosa is a tree from Sichuan in China. I am honestly amazed at the variety of different oak trees out there. Let’s hope that some of them will take to the UK’s changing conditions.

So, it’s good that Kew is thinking about the future of the gardens. Unless I live to be 130, I won’t be around in 2090, but I like to think that although changing conditions may be too much for some of our species, at least in West London, others will thrive. What’s important is planning and adapting (and trying to do our bit to stop the worst ravages of climate change wherever we can, whether it’s what we do personally or what pressure we put on our governments, or preferably both).

And here’s one final tree that is, surprisingly, on Kew’s list of Resilient Trees. Yes, it’s my old favourite the Swamp Cypress (Taxodium distichum). I first met this tree in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery, and then  in the Cleary Gardens in the City of London, and from its green spring foliage to its rusty red autumn hues, it’s a spectacular tree. And as it’s in the woodland grave part of the cemetery, I like to think that it gives comfort to people who visit. It certainly does to me.

 

Dear Readers, I have been attending a wonderful online  writing course for a number of years now – I’m currently working on a kind of memoir about Mum and Dad and dementia and death and all those very cheerful things. And one thing that we’re very keen on is letting one another know when we’ve ‘been thrown out’ of a piece of writing. You know the kind of thing – you’re reading the ‘story’ when suddenly there’s a change of speaker, or tone, or you don’t understand a phrase ( a regular occurrence as the rest of my classmates are American, so either I won’t understand what a Winnebago is, or they will be confused by a sentence  such as ‘I reckon I could do that tomorrow’). It’s a case of two nations divided by a common language indeed (or three nations if you count Canada, which you definitely should).

Anyhow, I am reading the book in the illustration above, about the neuroscience of grief. It’s absolutely fascinating. The writer knows ridiculous amounts about how the grieving brain reacts to things because she did the first ever study that involved popping recently-bereaved people into an MRI scanner to see how their brains behaved. So far so good. She describes how we all have a kind of ‘mental map’ of how the world should be, and how when someone dies, our  whole ‘map’ suddenly doesn’t work. And this is all in the first dozen pages.

And then, she describes how meerkats have a mental map of their territories. But Readers, she describes them as ‘rodents, similar to prairie dogs’.

How is that critter a rodent? Holy moly people, get a grip. I’ve been nipped by a meerkat (long story) and believe me, although a rodent can give you a nasty bite if cornered, these little guys are definitely carnivores, and are in fact members of the mongoose family. I was so indignant that I had to put the book down for the evening. Where is this person’s editor?

And then I wondered if it was just me. I am, in truth, in a constant  state of irritation. Articles about bees have illustrations of hoverflies. Articles about bumblebees have photos of honeybees. Asian hornet articles are illustrated by photos of European hornets. Does it matter? Well, partly I’m aggravated by the sheer laziness and ignorance. But then, I read an interesting article in New Scientist a few weeks ago, where the author pointed out that there is literally no fact-checking in most popular science books, which leads to a whole shelf load of inaccuracies and actual untruths being promulgated every week. Such a shame! There is a lot of interest in scientific subjects, and readers deserve better information. A case in point was the recent book about Artificial Intelligence by Yuval Noah Harari, who is a medieval historian  most famous for his book ‘Sapiens’. In the new book, ‘Nexus’, he seems to have wandered out of his zone of expertise and into a field that he knows much less about. And yet, no one seems to have pointed out the holes in his arguments (apart from in the New Scientist review, which is a humdinger).

So, when I read in a book about neuroscience that a meerkat is a rodent, I wonder what else is wrong in the text. Can I trust the writer on her field of expertise, or do I need to do some fact-checking myself? I find myself increasingly reading something and thinking ‘hmm’. Because of my Open University study, I have access to a whole world of papers and magazines, not just on science but on everything else, and it’s surprising how often it comes in useful. Most people don’t have access to such resources, though, or the time required to check things. But what I would say is, in this world of misinformation and confusion, if something feels ‘off’ it’s worth checking. For those of us in the UK, I particularly recommend the Radio Four programme ‘More or Less‘, where readers write in with a statistic that they’ve seen floating about and ask for the opinions of the statisticians and mathematicians on the programme. David Spiegelhalter’s input during the Covid-19 crisis was invaluable to me as a way of putting things in perspective and helping to explain the endless graphs and figures that were coming out at the time. He’s written a number of books too, including his latest about uncertainty, something that’s making a lot of us very nervous at the moment.

In spite of what you hear, not all opinions are created equal. Sometimes it’s worth finding an expert (or preferably several experts with differing opinions) and paying attention to what they say. And never trust someone who isn’t prepared to admit that they were wrong when new information is available. I suppose I am one of that apparently-dying breed who believes that there is such a thing as objective truth, and that a peer-reviewed paper should carry more weight than something that an ‘influencer’ believes and has put out on Tiktok. How old-fashioned of me!

So, Readers, what jolts you out of something that you’re reading? Does an inaccuracy in your area of expertise lead you to throw the book or magazine out of the window? Have you taken to writing to the Editor to complain (as it appears I have)? Do you have a pet peeve? I should probably take a few steps back now, as I know that some of my readers have strong opinions about such things (and I love them all the more for it). So have at it, Readers!

 

Dear Readers, you might remember that my Dad was a gin distiller for Gordon’s Gin. He travelled all over the world making up batches of the concentrated flavour that made Gordon’s unique, and then the local workers would dilute it with alcohol and sell it in the distinctive green bottles. As a result, Dad spent a lot of time around people who enjoyed alcohol, sometimes a little too much. And so he made sure that my brother and I were introduced to a little tipple early, so that we’d get used to how it made us feel.

Sometimes these experiments went awry, like the time he came back from Jamaica with a recipe for Caribbean cocktail, which combined gin, rum and a lot of pineapple. He made a ‘weak’ one for my brother and I (aged 15 and 13 respectively). The last thing I remember before passing out on the sofa is my mother asking Dad exactly how much booze he put in the drinks, and Dad shamefacedly replying ‘Only a little bit’.

Still, when I got off to University I thought I knew all about how to handle my drink, and I probably did until the unfortunate incident with the Dorset cider and the drinking game, that ended up with me being practically carried home. It was twenty-four hours before I stopped feeling nauseous and my head stopped pounding. If ever I’d known that alcohol was actually poisonous, I finally felt it in every pore of my body.

Which is a long-winded way to say that most animals can’t actually tolerate a lot of alcohol, including human beings. We’ve all seen the stories about drunken elephants feasting on fermenting amarula fruit, or Bohemian waxwings laying on their backs while sleeping off too many overripe berries. So it was a surprise this week to read that the Oriental Hornet (Vespa orientalis) (nb this is not the Asian Hornet that beekeepers are so worried about) can happily feed on 80 percent alcohol without any change to its behaviour or lifespan. To put this in context, this is four times stronger than any alcohol found in nature, and even animals that eat a lot of high-alcohol foods, such as fruit flies and tree shrews, can’t cope with more than 4 percent alcohol.

So, what’s so special about the hornet? The scientist conducting the study, Sofia Bouchebti of the University of the Negev in Israel, has identified that the hornet’s genome  contains between 2 and 4 copies of a gene that helps to break down alcohol into energy-providing sugars, and the hornet’s gut contains brewer’s yeast, which might further help in the process.

Whatever the reason, the Oriental Hornet (and possibly other hornet species) has found a way to live on something which is  poisonous to other creatures but is also extremely nutritious.  It would be like me living on methylated spirits without any damage to brain, body or long-term prospects. I’ve always thought that hornets were extraordinary creatures, and so they are.

You can read the New Scientist article here and the research paper here.

Dear Readers, my broken leg (not to mention my twisted ankle) are the gifts that just keep giving, and I’m only being mildly sarcastic. This past few months have taught me so much about myself, about what it’s like to be mobility-impaired (even temporarily, hopefully) and about living with pain. So here, for what it’s worth, are a couple of things that I’ve noticed.

Firstly, those priority seats in the Underground have been positioned where they are for a reason – they’re close to a handrail so you can ease yourself down and stand yourself back up. Just because the train is half-empty doesn’t mean that someone with a crutch/walking stick can just edge along the moving train to one of the other seats. Or, they can, but if they end up sitting on you by mistake it’s hardly their fault. And thanks so much to everyone (and there were many, many people) who positively bounded up when they saw me get on so I could sit in the priority seat. Also, I do know that many disabilities are invisible, so I’ve tried not to judge when a fit-looking young person is sitting in a priority seat and elderly ladies with walking sticks are standing. Though I might have harrumphed silently occasionally.

Secondly, judging how much pain is acceptable when walking on a combination of a recovering broken leg and a bruised and twisted ankle is a tricky thing. My physiotherapist suggests that I should stop if the pain is greater than a 6 or 7 out of 10. This is a bit difficult if you’re halfway to somewhere, but still. And also, everyone judges pain differently, and I suspect that while the pain of an abscessed tooth is up there close to 10, and bashing my elbow is a 4 fading quickly to a 1, it’s not easy to judge all the possibilities in the middle. I do think, though, that there’s a difference between the dull ache of a leg that’s healing and the sharp pain of a ligament complaining – the first tells me to pay attention but to keep going, while the second definitely calls for an ice pack.

And thirdly, there’s the whole question of risk. We’re meant to be off to Italy for a few days shortly, and I’m extremely nervous – what if I fall over again? What if I can’t manage? But then, if I don’t try, I won’t know. I can always rest up if my leg plays up too much. And since my last fall was walking along the corridor here at home, there’s no saying that not going will prevent a fall from happening – in fact I’m hyperaware when I’m out and about, so I take much more care. Plus, I don’t want my world to shrink too much through sheer fear. Onwards and (hopefully) upwards! The world awaits, and I am prepared to hobble off into it, albeit at half my usual speed. I have joined the ranks of the slow but steady, and I know that I’m in excellent company.

Dear Readers, our next door neighbours are putting in a new fence, which will be fence panels about six feet high. They have agreed to leave some gaps in/underneath the fence for hedgehogs/frogs etc which is great, though I will miss chatting to them over the much lower fence that we currently have. Still, no judgement here! They are lovely neighbours, and everyone does what they think is best with regards to privacy/light etc.

It does now present me with an opportunity – another vertical surface to use for wildlife! It is west-facing, although parts of it will be in shadow from trees and the hedge. So, I’m touting around for suggestions – I have a few thoughts myself, but as usual I’m throwing myself on the Bug Woman hive mind for your experiences.

First up, I want to reinstitute some bittersweet – it planted itself a few years ago, and then died. But a few months back, I found that some berries had germinated in a bucket (go figure) and so I’d like to plant it again. It’s such fun to hear the bumblebees buzz-pollinating, and to see the purple flowers and red/green berries.

Then, I’m thinking dog rose, another splendid plant for pollinators, plus who knows who will appreciate its thorny recesses once it gets going?

Does anyone have any experience with traveller’s joy, /old man’s beard, our only native clematis?

I already have ivy in the garden, but I guess this would be another wildlife-friendly choice, particularly in the darker areas….

Anyhow, the plants don’t have to be native, provided that they have wildlife value – increasingly I’m thinking that our native plants are going to come under increasing stress with climate change, and some botanists are suggesting that we plant things that are ‘adjacent’ to our current plants – some insects are already adapting to red birch as well as silver birch, for example, and something that can survive and that produces nectar or pollen is going to be a better choice than something that can no longer survive. Tricky questions for sure, and no absolute answers, but this is a topic for a future blog. Anyhow, over to you readers!

Dear Readers, I have a special affection for plant that bloom in the autumn, when  everything else is closing down, and this Nerine, otherwise known as the Cornish Lily, Cape Flower, Guernsey Lily or Bowden’s Lily, is a truly spectacular plant. Although it looks like a lily, it’s actually much more closely related to the Amaryllis. As pointed out in a previous post, it comes from South Africa, as do the other 20-30 species (scientists don’t seem to be able to come to a consensus on the number), so Cape Flower is probably the most accurate vernacular name.

Nerines are named for the Nereids, sea-going female spirits who rescued drowning sailors – there was a story that the plant first arrived in Guernsey after being washed ashore from a shipwreck. This particular species (Nerine bowdenii) was named after Athelstan Cornish-Bowden, surveyor-general in South Africa in the early 1900s, who first sent the bulbs (apparently shaped like ‘old-fashioned Chianti bottles’) to the UK in 1904.

Nerines are apparently fairly hardy (down to -15 degrees Celsius), grow best when crowded and hate being disturbed. It doesn’t like tropical or humid conditions, but does like heat. It sounds like a bit of a handful to be perfectly honest, but clearly the ones that I saw here on the County Roads in East Finchley were very happy. The owner of this house also has great success with Agapanthus, another South African bulbous plant, so clearly they have skills! I am very impressed.

Nerine bulbs contain a chemical called ungeremine, which is being investigated as a possible medicine for Alzheimer’s Disease, and as a bactericide. It also seems to have potential in the treatment of malaria and sleeping sickness.

In the wild, Nerine bowdenii is a plant of mountainous terrain with heavy summer rains and cold winter temperatures – note that any rain runs away, hence this plant’s hatred of having ‘wet feet’. It is pollinated by the long-tongued fly Prosoeca ganglbaueri, which has a tongue long enough to get to the nectar at the base of a nerine flower. What an astonishing creature – its tongue is actually longer than its body. And let’s not forget how important flies are in pollination – we all love the bees, with their furry bodies and (usually) cheerful dispositions, but let’s give credit where it’s due to our other buzzy insect neighbours.

I was surprised that I couldn’t find a poem on nerines, or Guernsey Lilies, or Cornish Lilies, so in the end, I searched for the colour pink, and came up with this, by Siegfried Sassoon. I have read a lot of Sassoon’s poetry, but this one was new to me. ‘In the pink’ means ‘being in good health, having reasons to be optimistic’. Plenty of irony here. See what you think.

‘In The Pink’ by Siegfried Sassoon

So Davies wrote: ‘ This leaves me in the pink. ‘
Then scrawled his name: ‘ Your loving sweetheart Willie ‘
With crosses for a hug. He’d had a drink
Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly,
For once his blood ram warm; he had pay to spend,
Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

He couldn’t sleep that night. Stiff in the dark
He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm,
When he’d go out as cheerful as a lark
In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm
With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear
The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge
Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.
Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge,
And everything but wretchedness forgotten.
To-night he’s in the pink; but soon he’ll die.
And still the war goes on; he don’t know why.

Dear Readers, before I start complaining and rolling my eyes, here is some good news: Lily and Margot, the Blue-throated Macaws who went missing from London Zoo nearly a week ago, are home. They were found nearly sixty miles away from the Zoo, in Cambridgeshire. They apparently flew into the arms of their Keepers, and were soon munching away on pumpkin seeds, walnuts and pecans. They’ll be kept in quarantine for a few weeks, and will then be reunited with their parents. It’s so nice to know that they’re now safely ‘home’.

And now, back to the complaining and eye-rolling. Dear Readers, I hope you’ll forgive me having a rant here, but with four days to go until Halloween I am already seeing hedges locally garlanded with this stuff – artificial spiders’ web (in the image above also with some artificial spiders). The webs are made of plastic, which will never break down, but they also entangle everything from real spiders, late-flying bumblebees looking for somewhere to hibernate, hedge-roosting birds and even foxes. I am in general something of a Halloween sceptic – whilst I can see the point of a mid-winter festival to keep the demons at bay, I am less impressed with the volume of plastic tat, palm oil and sugar involved. I can see the fun in wandering the streets dressed as a vampire (something that I did to raise money for charity many moons ago), and generally people are very respectful of those who don’t want to be opening their door to werewolves and witches every five minutes for three or four hours, but I do draw the line at garrotting the wildlife. If people absolutely have to use this stuff, can they pop it on on 31st October and take it off on 1st November? Or come up with some more wildlife-friendly way to make an impression?

To be fair, I think a lot of people don’t even know about the impact of these things, but maybe that’s the problem. Until we really do consider our animal neighbours as part of our community, we’ll carry on thinking we’re the only important creatures on this planet. And yes, it’s absolutely true that habitat destruction, window-strike due to lights being left on in skyscrapers and global warming are far greater risks to wildlife of all kinds, but choosing not to use artificial spider web is an easy choice available to all of us, not something that requires a massive change in our habits.

Oh, and pumpkins. Make soup, roast the seeds, use the hollowed-out pumpkin as a bird feeder. Just don’t dump the blooming things in your local woodland, and don’t put them out as ‘food for the hedgehogs’, as it gives them (and many other animals) diarrhoea.

Rant over. What do you think? Curmudgeon or not?