Tosticated as a Triton?

My sharp-eyed friend, D, spotted a newt in my pond yesterday, the first of the year.
We have three species of newt in Britain:
- palmate newt
- common or smooth newt
- great crested newt
The little bewdy in my pond is a palmate newt, the smallest and commonest of the three, and is no doubt in there to breed.
For the record, it showed no signs of inebriation.....

Something untoward

Today while sitting at my table having my docky, or "partaking of a light midday colation" as we fen folk prefer to call it, I was distracted by a movement and a noise of tapping at my window. And there, clinging to the window frame, was a Tree Sparrow, one of very few that I have ever recorded in my garden. No doubt about it: chestnut cap, white nape and white cheeks with black patches, and there it was tapping at my window and moving its head in an inquiring manner. Well, I say "inquiring", but I have to be honest, I am not good at reading the facial expressions of Tree Sparrows - or of any other bird species for that matter.
Maybe it was disgusted by the Egg Mayonnaise I was eating. Presumably for him this was the equivalent of us watching Chief NdegeNdogo tucking into Scrambled Missionary on Toast.
Anyway, for the record: 25 April 2008, one Tree Sparrow, Haddenham.

Not knowing when to quit

When I first joined the Bournemouth language school in 1961, there were some very odd characters on the teaching staff, but I want to talk about one in particular, Guy Dean.
He was a large lumbering man with a fruity voice and an inclination to fussiness. In his day he had been very fit, doing a lot of hill-walking and so on, and he was also a very accomplished dancer (ballroom style).
By the time I met him he was well into his fifties, but still something of a hit with the young Swiss girls who constituted a large proportion of our students. At school dances and similar events, he danced the night away with one girl after another, and I quite envied him his energy and his boyish enthusiasm.
As the years went by, he became more lumbering, more pernickety, and somewhat more irritating to his colleagues (Not to me, I always liked him).
But he continued to "court" the girls at school parties and dances, until the Principal (a fiery lady called Paddy Bayley) told him bluntly that he was becoming a nuisance to the girls, and that he should start to "act his age". Of course he didn't, because he was still 21 years old inside, because he didn't know how to stop, because he couldn't see what the problem was.
I guess it's classic old scrote behaviour. Guy Dean is very much in my mind at the moment, because I fear I am running the risk of similar foolishness. Come on, Allsop! Get a grip! Act your age - if, that is, you can still remember what it is.

Emperor moths - part two

It's a bugger, obstetrics. I opened most of the cocoons. All except two were empty. The other two had chrysalises (chrysalides? not sure), which may or may not produce imagines.
In the meantime, a free-flying moth arrived in the garden, all fired up with testosterone, so I put him in the cage with Mrs Emp and in no time, they were going at it like knives.
I phoned Jon Clifton of Anglian Lepidopterist Supplies, who told me it can take up to a week before she lays her eggs.
So, think of me pacing the corridors of the maternity ward, waiting for news that mother and eggs are doing fine.

Emperor Moth Update

I tell you, mes potes, pregnancy really takes it out of me. My female Emperor Moth has a swollen abdomen that suggests at least a hundred offspring, but of course she won't release her eggs until they have been fertilised by a cooperative male.
The trick is to find that cooperative male.
So far, after three days, no sign of one.
What is it with males these days? Are they all running in the London marathon or watching the snooker? Maybe they have all joined Gay Moth Pride and turning their backs, so to speak, on females.
Whatever it is, I am really worried for Mrs Emp, sitting there, all maternal, all distended, waving her antennae and exuding pheremones. To no avail. Avail is what that grande dame needs a lot of right now. And me too.
I do have two emergent males, I mean, emerging from their coccoons, but they are making a poor job of it. One is almost out but not pumping, the other has just one wing out and seems to be stuck. Maybe I should try for a caesarean.

Bricoleur

Prairie Mary's latest blog entry is entitled "The American Indian as Bricoleur". It set me to thinking, as all good blogs should. I think the English equivalent of "bricoleur" is "jack-of-all-trades". The completion is "jack-of-all-trades, master of none." Whatever I am tolerably good at, I am always aware of all the people who are much better at it than I am - birdwatching, playing piano, speaking a foreign language, whatever.
For a long time, this bothered me, I wanted to be outstandingly good at ONE thing, anything, as long as I was a master of it. But then, I thought, so Charlie X speaks perfect German, but then, that's the only foreign language he knows, whereas I, far less proficient in German than Charlie, also speak [insert languages]. Harry Y plays piano better than I do, but then, that's the only instrument he plays, whereas I also play [insert instruments]. Well, you can see what I mean.
I guess this makes me a "bricoleur".
What matters, though, is that I have learned to be contented to be a bricoleur: "jack-of-all-trades, master of none." The comedian Mick Miller said he left school with only two O Levels, in biology and metalwork, and went on: "So, if anyone has a cat that needs welding, I'm your man."

Trellis makes a plea for decorum

Mrs Trellis is not slow to root out unhealthy elements in blogland.

To the Editor of Farmers' Weekly, she writes, Dear Sir or Madam, I really must protest. Naked ladies' bums are not a fit illustration for even the most interesting blog, not that yours is interesting.
What I mean is, children might see those naked buttocks, and who knows what effect that might have upon their impressionable minds? They could well grow up with a bum obsession. Heaven knows, they are already apt to poke about in their nether regions without any encouragement from you. Please try to find more suitable material, eg, views of Harlech Castle and the Menai Straits, etc. Maybe even some nice wildlife photography, like that David Duke of Attenborough does.
But please, no more backsides, even if they are "art". As we know, "art" is just posh people's excuse for a bit of visual how's-your-father. As the late Mr Trellis used to say: "I don't need to see sex every time I switch on the television. I get enough of that at home." He was referring, of course, to his budgerigars.
The way his budgies would go at it hammer and tongs, you would have thought they were Welsh. But even budgies would be a better subject for your blog than classical Greek posteriors: at least budgies' bums are covered with feathers.
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, widow, retired.