Bottle TIts

This is the nest of the Long-tailed Tit (Aegithalos caudatus to you), a bird known to me when I was growing up as Bottle Tit. The nest says it all.
I have heard recently of Long-tailed Tits nesting in a regular tit box. It must be a first. Has anyone else come across this aberration?
By the way, I am still waiting for someone to come up with a good collective noun for Long-tailed Tits. It will have to be good to beat "an oddie of bearded tits".

Mrs Trellis keeps a breast of the times

It's good to get a letter from my North Wales correspondent after a long silence:

Dear Mr Obama, she writes, what a shock! I read that you'd been assassignated  in, where was it?, Parkistan, then next day, there you are, on the telly, large and life, only a bit darker. If you are dead, I apologise for bothering you, but if you aren't dead, I am  quite happy about that, I mean, you seem to be a nice person, though you could do with being a bit taller, and maybe let your hair grow a bit.
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retd.

Swifts and Dragons

Please ignore the old scrote in this picture. What really matters is the pair of Swift nestboxes at the top of the picture. Bill and I put them up at the request of the young woman, Tracey, standing next to me (and infinitely more worth looking at), who was distressed that a nearby building housing a Swift colony had been demolished.
It's a bummer we mostly hear about this kind of destruction only after it has happened, and nestboxing is generally the only remedy we have. Tracey intends to play the CD of duetting Swifts from her bedroom window, night and day if necessary, to lure the returning Swifts to the boxes.
By the way, the scary creature standing next to Tracey (no, not me, the little chap) is her son Felix dressed as a dragon. This is an optional extra in the business of persuading Swifts to come and live with you. Swifts are so contrary, it might just work. Go for it, Felix!

Drought

According to the Meteorological Office, it was the hottest, driest April since records began, and it's still continuing. Fires are being reported from various parts of Britain. I thought it might be worth putting up a notice or two.

Hang on a mo'

The prolonged spell of warm dry weather is beginning to feel like a drought. The ground is rock hard, which must make digging for worms, etc, an ordeal for the likes of Blackbirds and Robins. Which is probably why they have taken to trying to get food from one of the bird feeders, the cage-like device which contains fat balls. Of course, unlike tits, sparrows and most finches, they are not good at hanging on, so they burn up a lot of wing-flapping energy as they peck for morsels. This morning, a Jackdaw was performing the same trick. That's a first if ever there was one!
It's a bit sad really, so I am going to see if I can find a source of cheap apples to keep the Blackbirds and Robins going till the monsoon breaks.
PS The photo is not mine. If I knew whose it was, I would acknowledge him/her.
PPS "Hang-on-a-mo" is also the name of a Scouse Red Indian....

The girl can't help it

Listen, it's very simple. I have online banking with Barclay's, two accounts, current and deposit. Fine. I also have a community bank account (ie a sort of charity account) for Action for Swifts, which at the moment I do not have online.
So, call the Barclay's helpline, wade through a series of alternatives ("If you are feeling suicidal, press 9", that sort of thing), listen to some crap tinny music till a PERSON comes on. A sweet voice from the subcontinent asks me if she can help me. It takes at least 15 minutes to satisfy her that I am who I say I am.
We come to the nub of the call. She seems baffled by the notion of a community bank account, and tells me I need to speak to my Relationship Officer. Wow, I didn't know I had one. The RO's name is Elizabeth Cooke, and I am excited at the prospect of a meaningful relationship with her. So, I sign off from Mumbai, and call Elizabeth Cooke.
She is, it turns out, unobtainable.
So, I dial the helpline a second time and - eventually - get a different sweet voice from the subcontinent, who goes through the entire procedure again, including the Liz Cooke bit.
When I tell her that Lizzy is bizzy (or dead), she says "Never mind, do you realise, Mr Allspop, that you are not getting the best interest on your deposit account. Instead of 0.2% you could be getting 0.25%, I can set it up for you."
OK, do it, I say, but this doesn't solve my problem with the community account.
"One more thing, Mr Allscock," she intones (these people don't talk, they intone like Tibetan monks doing a tantra), "have you thought about an ISA?"
At this point, I am tempted to press 9. The Old Scrote's serenity has disintegrated. I tell Mumbai I have had enough, I can feel my pacemaker running down, I need a wet towel and a darkened room, goodbye.
Helpline shmelpline, you could get a better response from a rat in a plum tree.

The snake under the ladder

It's official! I am now fully qualified to fall off a ladder and hurt myself without benefit of clergy. Oh frabjous joy!
But, hold, there is a terrible sting in the tail. Can you see it? Yes, my qualification will be withdrawn on 12th December 2015.
I must check with my universities without delay to see if they have a similar intention to take away my MA and my PGCE. If so, I fear that on 13th December 2015, you could find me dead at the foot of my ladder, an unqualified success.