A cautionary tale

I have already written about this sad event on the yahoo group Cambirds. Accidents to birds involving binder twine are not uncommon. It's doubtful if we could persuade all users of binder twine to dispose of it safely, but it would be a good start if we as individuals picked up any we find lying around and wrap it before disposing of it in the bin.
The Swifts were found by my colleague, Bill Murrells, while he was doing some maintenance work on Witcham Parish Church. From their desiccated state, it is clear that they were long dead, probably strangled when they tried to pick some strands from a heap taken into a nest cavity by nearby Starlings.
I have found a Little Owl and Barn Owlets in a similar plight. So, please, if you see binder twine, pick it up and dispose of it safely.
Cheers

Liffery K-L

kelling
Pretending to be Irish, a stratagem much used by Jews in Gaza. Oy veh, Maria.

kennett, adj
Feeling good after being undercharged in an Italian restaurant. Rare.

king's lynn
A medical condition ascribed to Henry VII, who experienced finger spasms when told it was his turn to buy a round. The "Lynn" refers to his wife, who kept an empty purse handy for such occasions.

kirtling
Absent-minded self-fondling. It is not generally realised that in the first line of the American folksong "Froggy went a-courtin' and he did ride". “a-courtin’” was originally "a-kirtlin'". This was changed by popular demand after a plague of waterfleas in Minnesota.

lamas

South American mammals that adopt a stance of buddhist calm when confronted with shears.

linden doles
Melancholy brought on by leafless trees.

little downham
[1] A property owner's right to chop all the branches off a dangerous tree while leaving the bole intact. (See also lynford arboretum)
[2] a badly-executed bikini line.

little ouse
The colourless liquid which emerges from an uncooperative zit.

little raveley
A futile attempt to re-create the thrills of a great raveley (qv).

little snoring
Great snoring (qv) for the timid.

little stukeley
She says, “I am feeling a little stukely tonight, darling”. He says, “I am so sorry, darling, I have the most terrible migraine.”

lockspit
An informal way of slicking down hair, much favoured by Adolf Hitler. His aide-de-camp used to collect the Fuehrer's Saliva during His Speeches expressly for That Purpose.

lode
A moment of indecision. Atypical lode moment occurs when you can’t decide whether to cross your left leg over your right, or your right leg over your left.

lolworth
A scale for measuring how funny a joke is, based on audience reaction ranging from a subdued groan (score 1) to a double inguinal hernia (score 10).

longstanton
Descriptive of those rare occasions when a man wishes it wouldn't.

lynford arboretum
The opposite of a little downham (qv), viz, a property owner's right to remove the BOLE of a dangerous tree while leaving the BRANCHES intact. Tricky manoeuvre.

lyng, n
[1] Allophones of the phoneme [r]. Lyng accounts for the poster outside a Kyoto theatre announcing a performance of Mozart's Magic Fruit.
[2] lyng lyng (redupl) The sound made by a Chinese telephone.

The Daleks are coming!

Alien introductions can be disastrous: the rabbits in Australia, that turned whole areas into desert; the rats, cats, goats and pigs that wiped out endemic species (try to find a kiwi or a kakapo or a takahe in New Zealand now); the invasive weeds that choke estuaries, and - nearer to home - the grey squirrel, that has done for our native red squirrel what the conquistadores did for the Incas.
And now there's another: the Harlequin Ladybird. I went recently to a talk given by Dr Mike Majerus, a leading coleopterist and a specialist in ladybirds. I had no idea what a threat this recent invader is likely to be to most of our native ladybird species. It breeds shamelessly, it is omnivorous, it is big, and it is ruthless. It is the Dalek of the insect world (pace those people who have welcomed the return of Dr Who to BBC - goodness, they must be desperate!). Exported mysteriously from its Asian homeland, where it apparently behaves itself, it has reached plague proportions in north America, and is now busy working its way up Europe and into Britain. It has already arrived in fact.
Dr Majerus urged us all to go out and check the ladybirds in our gardens, recording the good guys as well as this invader. There's even a laminated sheet giving tips on identifying the Harlequin as well as our common species (if you want details, visit www.harlequin-survey@ceh.org and www.ladybird-survey.org ). On the evening of his talk, he handed out Petri dishes containing various examples of the wicked beetle, and here lies my problem: it can be - at least for me - very difficult to differentiate from our familiar coccinella species. Moreover, I think it should be called the chameleon not the Harlequin, because it has so many variations from mainly black with a couple of red bands, to mainly red with a few black blotches. Fortunately, there is one way to be sure. Put one on your finger, and if it gives you a vicious bite, it's a Harlequin. Apparently, it also stinks.
Another gloom and doom story? Well, yes and no. Fortunately, there is a parasitic wasp that might do for it. Already scientists are talking about using the wasp as a biological control. Let us it works, because if it doesn't, the Harlequin will eventually wipe out most of our other ladybird species, along with aphids, lacewings and other aphid-feeders. And if this happens, species higher in the food chain, such as birds, are going to suffer a serious famine.

East Anglian Liffery G-I

So many lovely words would be wasted if it were not for Liff.

gateley, adj
Descriptive of people who enjoy going through gates. “He has his gately Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span” (Shelley) emphasises the importance of moving smartly through a gate and also making sure first that it’s wide enough for your backside.

gayton thorpe
In the good old days, Sir Reginald Gayton Thorpe was the byword for le vice anglais in his part of Norfolk. The epitaph on his gravestone records his dying wish to be buried face down under the honest Norfolk sod.

gedney dyke (male jargon)
An aphetic form of the question frequently asked by one male of another: “Did you get any?” together with the improbable explanation of why he didn’t.

girton
Every man has a drawer or a box or a large tin stuffed with "girton". Even modern males who vowed never to be like their fathers usually end up with a girton. Like the coton (qv), a girton is full of very usable bits and pieces, which you only need the day after you throw them away.

gissing
New Zealand slang for “Not sure.”

godmanchester
Reputed to be the despairing cry of a Cambridgeshire sales rep on arriving in the northwest. Now refers to anyone who forgets to carry a raincoat in August.

graveley, adj
Descriptive of the mood of a slimmer who feels obliged to order"a dray whate wane", but hates it.

great raveley
A wonderful party which you wouldn't have missed for the world, if only you had been invited.

great snoring
The noises people make when trying to endear themselves to polar bears in a zoo.

grunty fen
One burp too many after a serious vindaloo.

guyhirn
Gordon Brown’s attempt at a smile. Scary.

hardwick
An ambiguous postman, the kind who leers while making you sign for junk mail.

haughton
An involuntary tightening of the sphincter when forced to be polite to one's social inferiors.

haverhill
Medieval manors had a mound of earth on which virgins had the right to "haver", ie think about it before saying yes. Such mounds were often places for target practice or for getting a good view of what was about.

hemingford grey
Popularised by Rossano Brazzi, this refers to the touching-in of the temples of an otherwise black barnet. In Italian, cappelli brizzolati . The Grecians also had a word for it.

hickling broad (WWII US servicemen’s slang)
The hickling broad was an infamous East Anglian fille de joie who used to enjoy sneaking up on GIs and sinking her teeth into their necks. The tracks of the Sherman tank were reputed to be based on a cast of her dentures.

hilgay
A sudden quickening of pace, a curious hopping gait, accompanied by a bright grin, adopted by people who arrive late to take their seat at a function in the belief that it makes them both lovable and invisible. Hitler performed a hilgay at Compiegne, but for different reasons.

hitchin (obs)
A device made from beech brashings and used to relieve itching between the shoulderblades. "Wieldin' the ‘itchin’" for this purpose was indistinguishable from self-flagellation, and nearly as much fun.

hockering
Wondering whether to give it one more try at the disco, or just go home for a barclays and a mug of horlicks..

holywell
The lost art of darning socks.

humby, adj
Descriptive of socks that are on the cusp.

ingoldisthorpe (pron nuguluduzuthup)
A name of Viking origin which makes you glad you are not Norwegian.

isleham (pron 'eye-zlum)
An unscrupulous birder’s gambit, you “play an isleham” by saying that, for instance, the warbler that just flitted through the scrub, and which ONLY YOU SAW, had a yellow supercilium, a crown stripe and a double white wingbar. You then wait for someone else to call “Pallas’s!” and shrug modestly. It never fails, but thereafter leave as soon as it is decent to do so.

Would you like to see my jinty?

I like trains. I once took the train from Thessaloniki to Athens, a seven-hour journey as the Greek Firebird flies - while my colleague took the plane. We - the lucky passengers - passed through wonderful scenery, including Mount Olympus, this being the only time I ever got close to the gods, except for one memorable evening at the Liverpool Philharmonic, where, to be honest, I was more interested in the contents of my future wife's bra than the music playing in the far distance below us.
Anyway, I digress - which bloggers are allowed to do - my Athenian colleague (Can you believe a Greek lady called Bella Dietschi? Really. Hi, Bella!) met me at the station and apologised that the train was an hour late. My response was to say how pleased I was that I had had an extra hour at no extra cost. And I meant it. A similar experience with the Fatih Express from Istanbul to Ankara, on that occasion only an extra forty minutes gratis, but I don't want to be ungrateful or add fuel to the Graeco-Turkish issue (Cypriots that I have spoken to from both sides of the divide tell me: "We are not Greek", or "We are not Turkish". They say: "We are Cypriots". Come on, you Big Brothers, get out and leave them alone).
I also like trains because my son Jeremy likes trains, although he is an aficionado of the diesel era, while I have a nostalgia for steam. In my natal Shropshire village, we could go either to the main village station, Hadley, and see the LMS trains; or to Hadley Halt, north of the village, and watch the magnificent GRW locos speed past like spaceships. I liked both, but preferred the Halt because I had fallen for a dark-haired gypsy girl called Melva Davies who lived in a nearby railway cottage (I was eight at the time and it was love in its purest form, unrequited. How I have thriven on unrequited love over the years...)
I also like trains because my grandson, Joseph, likes trains. We made a couple of trigenerational trips to the Nene Valley Railway, an hour north of where I live in Cambs; and one trip to the Swanage Railway in Dorset, where Joseph and family lived before migrating to New Zealand. Wonderful! Do visit these collections of old trains, even if you are not into trains: there is something majestic about old locos. Joseph is now a kiwi, but he tells his father that he wants to visit Grandad again because Grandad has a Jinty.
Hands up all those who know what a Jinty is. Me neither till I bought one on impulse at a swapmeet in Bury St Edmunds, some years before Joseph was born. A jinty is an old-style shunting engine, a basic workhorse moving rolling stock about, and I bought a jinty trainset for £25. Watching a train with six assorted wagons trundling round a circular track on the dining-room table palls after a while, but my jinty had a new lease of life when my first grandson, Joseph, came to visit. And now, he tells everyone in Auckland, New Zealand, [a] that he is English; and [b] that his Grandad has a jinty. Oh my! That makes me so proud!
But I don't like modern trains. This is not me being a grumpy old man (although I do that well). I don't like these Sprinters because they have been designed, like so much of the planet, by a Malevolent Japanese Dwarf. Well, maybe not Japanese, but whoever he she or it is, they have very small bums and very short backs. My arse doesn't fit in the seat, and the seat stops in mid shoulderblade while the rest of my back, neck and head carry on. For a while, I thought it was me. For a while, I held to the proposition that I was on the Wrong Planet. But natural grumpiness forced me to the conclusion that I am probably on the Right Planet, and that there really is a conspiracy against anyone over one metre tall and seventy kilos weight. Tight seats, mingy legroom, low lintels, narrow beds, XXL still not enough for anyone of a decent size. Grrrrr. I once wrote to a clothing chain store asking them why they stacked clothes with the smallest sizes on the top rack and the biggest sizes on the bottom. Think about it. Of course, we have special shops called Big Man or Fuller Figure (I have a size problem, but it's better than being a woman with a size problem), but don't go in there: everything fits but is totally HORRIBLE. Woolworths do cheap crockery, fair enough. Cheap is good. But why do they also have to make it so UGLY. I reckon it's all part of the same conspiracy. Paranoid: Me? You bet!

Never mind all that. Let me reiterate: old locos are gorgeous. I should know, being a bit old and a bit loco myself.

The Wisdom of Sophie, Part 119

After the Anitkabir outburst, I thought it wise to get back on track with some more of Sophie's gems. By the way, this is not a picture of her brother Harry; I think it may be of George W Bush as a child.

Boys
Mommy, I think boys are gross.
Really? Why is that, dear?
They pull your hair and say rude things and make bad smells.
Not all boys are like that, surely? What about your brother?
ESPECIALLY my brother!!
Drink your fermented Bighorn sheepmilk, dear.

My birthday is on June 5th. Please make all donations payable to me, not to charity
Birthdays again
Mommy, can we have a party for Grandpa's birthday?
But Grandpa isn't here, dear.
I know, but we can save him a piece of cake.
But we can't have a party without Grandpa.
I don't see why not. He'd only fall asleep anyway.
Drink your environmentally-friendly buttermilk,dear.

Why are all the bad things so good?
Junk food
Mommy, why can't we eat junk food like normal people?
Because it's not good for you. I want you to grow up strong and healthy.
But Grandpa eats all kinds of junk food and..
Yes?
Yikes. Can I have A LOT MORE broccoli and a BIG glass of carrot juice, please?

We all try to define our individuality by assuming attitudes, adopting roles, etc
Vengintairians
Mother, I have decided to become a venginterian.
A what, dear?
Oh mother, please listen! A VENGINTERIAN.
Oh, a vegetarian. You do know what the word means?
Oh mother, really. You must think I'm a child.
Yes, dear. So, no more meat.
That's right. I refuse to eat animal flesh. It's barbar..., it's gross.
Very well. Eat your wholewheat-breaded albacore strips, dear.
Yes, mother.

Well, this IS California, after all. Kick back, chill, it's cool.
Lensibum
Mother, I have decided to become a lensibum.
A what, dear?
A LENSIBUM. Why do I have to repeat myself?!
Oh, a lesbian. Very well, dear, but why?
Because I no longer wish to eat meat.
That's a vegetarian, dear. A lesbian is, well, something different.
I can be BOTH, can't I?
Yes, dear, if you wish. Now, what would you like for tea?
Are lesbians allowed to eat chicken nuggets?

Hey, I don't know what it is either.
Omega 3
Mommy,. why is fish good for you?
Because it contains essential oils like Omega 3.
Whar's Omega 3?
It's something you get from fish.
But what does it DO?
Eat your fair-trade barley-fed coley nuggets, dear.

It's not only children who are direct. I was once told by a girlfriend "Your neck's gone, Jake". Thanks a bunch.
Ears
Mommy, Grandpa's got hairs growing out of his nose.
Yes, dear.
And his ears are awful loooooooong.
Yes, dear.
And he's got no hair on the top of his head.
Yes, dear.
Maybe he doesn't get enough Omega 3.
Eat your live-culture low-fat bionic yogurt, dear.

Anitkabir

Here's a quiz for a wet Sunday afternoon. This picture was taken no more than a couple of weeks ago. Where is it? Who are these people? Why are they congregating in such a vast number? One thing is sure: you didn't see this picture in your wet Sunday newspaper, broadsheet or tabloid. Nah, some things just ain't news.

One of my heroes is George Orwell. The issue was unambiguous for him: fascism was evil and had to be fought wherever it started to take root, first in Italy, then in Germany and Spain. Fascism: those choreographed parades, the passionate oratory and the sexy uniforms. Spain in the thirties: clearcut issues, clearcut causes, good guys and bad guys. The intelligensia of northern Europe was in a ferment, polarised by the seductive glamour of fascism, or the nobility of the heroic workers' struggle.

So, where is the same intelligensia today, these heirs of Guernica and the siege of Barcelona, now that another country is sinking under another kind of tyranny? Ah, but wait a minute. Look at the photograph again. These people are not the honest sons of toil with muscular forearms and grime-laced faces from years of toil under the harsh Anatolian sun. These are well-to-do people, toffs, academics.

Let me come clean. This is a picture of a recent gathering at the Anitkabir Mausoleum in Ankara, it shows a protest against the skullduggery that passes for governance in present-day Turkey. The protesters are, let's face it, representative of the people who have most to lose from the destruction of the secular state and its replacement by a fundamentalist islamic state modelled on Iran.

I love Turkey in too many ways to list. I am in awe of the achievements of Mustafa Kemal, called Ataturk, "father of the Turks". And I am also aware that Turkey, as Disraeli said of Victorian England, is two nations. It's a familiar story: the good life is in the cities, so the peasantry flock into the cities, don't find the good life, end up in bidonville and listen to those who provide simple panaceas for their ills. Because there is no coherent left-wing party in Turkey, just a mess of squabbling idealogues (George Orwell described the sectarian sickness that afflicts the Left), the fundamentalists have had a clear run, and they have swept to power on the votes of the disaffected - and sources of funding that would not stand up to scrutiny.
And, my goodness, there have been some improvements: lots of new buses in Ankara to replace those rumbling monsters belching diesel fumes; lots of treeplanting and other green initiatives; cheap fuel for the poor (well, this last is not good news because the cheap fuel is lignite, the stuff that created horrendous smogs in Ankara till natural gas was introduced in the nineties). All popular stuff, good for the citizenry.
Wait though. Under Hitler, Germany built the autobahns, produced the People's Car (the literal translation of "Volkswagen") and promoted health and strength programmes which created a nation of fit and healthy people. More than that, Nazism gave Germans back their self-respect and their self-belief. But Auschwitz and Belsen and the rest were too high a price to pay for these benefits. So, clean buses and trees are welcome, but they are not per se an argument for the benignity of the regime.

So, to come back to the demonstration at Anitkabir (which is the focal point for Atatrurkism), these are people who don't want an Iran-style system. They have everything to lose. So, which side of the barricades should we be on? For barricades there will be. In Britain, we have a nation which, give or take a few blips, has been stable for a thousand years. Turkey - like many other nations around the world - is less than a century old, born out of the dismemberment of the Ottoman empire which left a maelstrom of unresolved conflicts. So we should not be too quick to judge such a young nation. What were we like one hundred years after King Alfred?

As usual, I have more questions than answers. But if the day comes when you have to hunker down on one side of the barricades or the other, start thinking now past the detail - as Orwell did - and decide where you belong.