A craft moment

I am grateful to my friend M for the following. While talking to a lady of a certain age and social standing, he used the expression "senior moment". She immediately corrected him. "Such moments should be called craft moments", she said.
When he asked her why "craft", she told him the word was the acronym of "can't remember a fucking thing."
I have the greatest admiration for ladies of a certain age and social standing, regardless of bosom or tractor.

What's in a date?

31 May.
Just another day.
It happens to be my mothtrapping friend Barbara's birthday.
It's one of the few days in the year which is not a Saint's Day.
It's a day when people are born, people get married, people fall of a bus, break a leg, win the lottery.
Just another day.
Once a year, a day arrives which reminds me of things I don't want to be reminded of. That day is 31 May.
Thank god for 1 June. At least it gives me 364 days before the next reminder of things past, things lost.

Bank Vole biology

I know that you secretly wanted to know more........

Bank voles are active during both the day and night, although they become increasingly nocturnal during the summer. They do not hibernate in winter, but are active throughout the year. They have a broad diet, which is mainly herbivorous, including fruit, soft seeds, leaves, fungi, roots, grass, buds and moss. They may also occasionally take invertebrate food such as snails, worms and insects, and the odd bird egg may be eaten. Breeding typically takes place between April and October, but when conditions are suitable, births may occur throughout the year. Ovulation by the female is stimulated by the presence of a male, possibly via certain scents that males produce. Gestation takes around 21 days, but may be a short as 17 days in this species if conditions are optimal. Between 4 and 5 litters are produced in a year, each one consisting of 3-5 young. Females are able to conceive again whilst still suckling the previous litter; under these circumstances the gestation period will be longer, up to 24 days. The young voles are born in a nest, which is usually located underground. Males do not assist with rearing the offspring. Females are very protective of the litter; if any young leave the nest the female locates them and carries them back to the nest. The young become sexually mature at around 4.5 weeks of age, however those born later in the year will not start to breed until the next spring. Predators such as owls, kestrels, foxes and weasels take their toll on vole populations; the maximum life span for this species is 18 months. The numbers of bank voles varies greatly throughout the year, being high towards the end of summer and plummeting through the winter to a low in Apri.

Now, that's one helluva life style.

Let's hear it for Clethrionomys glareolus!

What a mouthful of a name for such a tiny creature! The Bank Vole, Clethrionomys glareolus.
All the voles are cuddly, being generally snub-nosed, titchy-eared and short-tailed, but the Bank Vole, with its russet coat, is the most endearing of them all.
And my Bank Vole is back after an absence of two summers. OK, it's probably not the same one, but it behaves in exactly the same way. It scurries between the hebe and the plum tree like some whirring clockwork toy.
I have no idea whether its home is under the hebe or in the roots of the plum tree. Maybe it has two homes, maybe it's a bigamous male with a wife and kids in each place. I don't know.
All I know is my Bank Vole is back and bringing moments of joy to temper the humdrummery of an old scrote's existence. You are very welcome to come and have a look.

A Tale of Two Committees

Study the diagram and hear my story. The nine acres of land shown in green are in the south of Haddenham parish, fenland, and up against the Old West River. The farmer who rented the land from the County Council retired and the land came on the market. We - Haddenham Conservation Society - decided to raise funds to buy it so that it could become the first extensive woodland in the parish. And we succeeded. We raised £16,000 to buy the land, and were able to plant nearly five thousand trees. Now, the woodland is a joy, and much used and appreciated by the local community.
Now look at the brown triangle, seven acres being farmed by another farmer. It is an awkward shape for a farmer and he was prepared to let us have it at a reasonable price and on very good terms (delayed payments, etc). There was a proviso: he would let us have it if we agreed not to bid for another 50 acres of farmland coming up elsewhere in the parish.
For us it was a win-win situation. We could extend our wood to 16 acres on favourable terms, and we had no interest whatsoever in acquiring the 50 acres he was after. So, why did we not accept the farmer's offer? The issue was debated by the Conservation Society committee. At first I had two other people who agreed with me that it was a wonderful opportunity. Then the rest - about seven other members - voiced their opposition, and my two allies then switched sides. Their apostasy hurt. We did not get the triangle of land. I immediately resigned as Chairman of the Society after seven years of service, disillusioned and demoralised by the irrational attitudes of my colleagues.

Why were they against accepting the farmer's offer? Because they didn't like him. Simple as that. He ran an agribusiness, the people on my committee were small farmers or scions of small farming familes. The reasons they gave in that meeting were unbelievably specious. One even said that it would be better to have TWO woods, the Nineacre, and another small one somewhere else in the village (not that there were any small parcels of land available elsewhere in the village anyway) rather than a single wood of 16 acres.
The headmaster at my Grammar School once wrote in my school report "He does not suffer fools gladly", which makes me sound arrogant. I am not, but I cannot cope with intellectual dishonesty. Recent events in another parish group to which I have given my all over the last four years is now indulging in the same kind of tortured illogical thinking, so, having failed to persuade anyone of my views, I have just written my resignation letter. I know it's a sort of cowardice, but there is a limit to my tolerance of human foolishness.

Garden in May, north border

This is the north border of my garden in mid-May. Starting from the shed, the first shrubs are an ornamental Hawthorn with pretty red and white blossoms and behind it a Pittosporum, with succulent dark-green leaves. Pittosporum is used in wreaths to provide the greenery. Moving further down the border, there is a Buddleia, globosa, which has intense orange globes when it flowers in May. Next to the bird bath is a Box, which I try to keep trimmed into a spherical shape. Box is a favourite with topiarists. Behind the Box is a Flame Tree, the leaf colour is an intense almost luminous burgundy and outrageously showy. Even more showy is the next shrub, the Ceanothus, or, as I prefer to call it, Californian Lilac. Beyond that again, though scarcely visible, there is a sprawling Hebe, and behind it a Euonymus species which I like to call Spindleberry. The Spindleberry comes into its own in late summer and early autumn when the amazing pink fruits form.
So now you know why I sit on my patio whenever the weather permits and gaze at the north border of my fenland garden.

Parable

And it came to pass on the road from Hebron to Jerusalem that a traveller was jumped on by a gang of lager louts coming back from the match, and deprived they him of his wallet and most of the air in his lungs after a good kicking. And the lager louts then sodded off, singing "You should never walk alone", as is their wont. And the traveller lay he still and groaned. And thought: "help me somebody". And then cried he out loud "Help me, somebody."
And a nurse passed by, looked at him and thought: "No way am I going to get involved. If anything went wrong, his family would sue me for a million shekels."
And a gendarme passed by, looked at him and thought: "Don't get involved - all the bloody paperwork it would generate, and no thanks at the end of it."
And a yeshiva student passed by, looked at the hapless traveller and thought: "I'd help him, but I got another ten pages of the Talmud to finish or I'll be in right shtuck."
And the lager louts came back and gave the traveller another kicking. And the traveller passed out, and when he came to, felt he terrible. Life, he thought, is hardly worth the trouble. That was when, in a last desperate throw, took he out his cellphone and called Directory Enquiries to get the number of the Samaritans. And the lady at Directory Enquiries was very nice about it, and said she was very sorry, but the number was ex-directory.