Oh no, not again!

Grandpa, why do you snore?
I don't snore, dear.
You do too. I heard you.
That's not possible: I always put a clothes peg on my nose.
Don't you mean a clothes pin? >sigh<
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Mommy, where's Grandpa? Is he in Heaven already?
No dear, he's in England.
That's like Hell, right?
Eat your iron-rich antioxidant spinach puré, dear.

Grandpa, why did God make poisonous snakes?
I'm not really sure, honeybunch.
Grandpa, why did God invent mosquitoes?
Erm, who knows, sweetiepie?
Grandpa, what are hurricanes for?
I guess they must have some purpose, angelcake.
Grandpa, you don't mind if I ask you questions, do you?
Of course not, princess, how else are you going to learn?
Grmmph

Mrs Trellis again

Once again, my thanks to Mrs Trellis of North Wales for her unending stream of letters to me. What an indefatigable lady she is. I just wish she would stop confusing me with Gloria Hunniford. I really am not able to give the good Welsh lady advice on how to address an Archangel, but I don't think "Hi Mike, how's it hanging?" would really be the best way to start an eternal friendship.

Boxing

The Barn Owl box is now in situ in the black barn. I tried to take pictures of it, but my camera is in sullen rebellion, so please take my word for it that the box looks magnificent on its plinth.
I just hope the Barn Owls can see what a des res it is.
We - I had the assistance of David H, who, as always, wishes to remain anonymous - lined the box with wood shavings and threw in a few pellets for the birds to shred. What more can we do? Does anyone know a prayer appropriate to Barn Owl nestboxing?
Envoi: today, during a day on the fens repairing nestboxes, Peter W and I were lucky enough to come upon a widow with a barn and a lust to have Barn Owls nesting in it. So, if you will excuse me, I will go now as I need to get an early night so that I will be fresh to start a new box tomorrow morning.
After all, it's not every day I get the opportunity to perform an act of unconditional love for a pining widow.

Who dat?

I just listened to a newsitem saying that fraudsters can steal the identity of bloggers who give away too much personal information. For example, if they've got your real name, where you live and your approximate DOB (from your zodiac sign), they can track you down in the Electoral Register.
But it's all a bit puzzling. I cannot understand why anyone should want to be me: I live with me all the time, day in day out seven days a week, but I sure wouldn't if I didn't have to.

Moving on swiftly....

The General Synod of the Church of England now has a pro-active policy on the environment, and the Diocese in which I live has a specific policy to encourage the provision of nesting sites for swifts. This is clearly a good climate for us in Action for Swifts. All the same, if you want to put a "louvre" nestbox for swifts in a church belfry (the kind of box that gives them nesting accommodation but does not allow them to enter the belfry itself), you need the approval of the Churchwarden, who is responsible for the fabric of the building; and the Bell Captain, who is responsible for the bells. Although you don't need it, it is clearly a good idea to get the blessing of the Vicar as well.
We now have a number of churches in Cambridgeshire with louvre boxes. Hurrah. But in the case of the church at S.... we have the approval of the Churchwarden and the Bell Captain, and the support of the village Conservation Society to boot, but the Vicar says he does not want swift nestboxes in his belfry.
I have had a word with God, who understandably has turned down my request to strike the Vicar dead - I know I was a little hasty - so I am now casting round for some other means of removing the blockage. Goodness knows what the Vicar's reasoning is. Maybe he already has bats in the belfry, if you catch my drift.
Anyway, if you hear that the Vicarage in the parish of S... has been burnt down, with the Vicar in it, just put it down to one of those freakish happenstances that sometimes occur.

Barn Owl nestboxing

BEFORE
Quot homines, tot sententiae definitely applies to the design of nestboxes for certain species. The best accommodation for the Common Swift (Apus apus) for example, is a subject as contentious as Princess Diana's last day on earth. Do Swifts want big or small? with or without a nest cup? an oval or a square entrance hole? the hole on the side or underneath? a light or a dark interior? gas-fired or oil-fired central heating? - seriously, there are as many opinions as there are Swift enthusiasts.
You would think that there would be unanimity of opinion about the preferences of Barn Owls (Tyto alba), but even in the case of this species, there are many nestbox variations. Take the bog standard square box type - think of a tea-chest with a front on it. What size should the entrance hole in the front be? Not too big - don't want draughts, but not too small either. Where should the hole be? At the top, at the bottom, in the middle? Should there be a "tray" in front, and if so, should it have a raised rim?
OK, for those of you who are about to put up a Barn Owl box in your stable, put the hole at the top, so that the young cannot get out until they have at least some flight feathering. Otherwise, if they fall out, they will not so much flutter down as plummet. Make sure there is a tray so that when the young do emerge, they have an exercise platform, but whether it needs a parapet I cannot tell you. Oh yes, and there is no need to write ENTRANCE over the access hole.
I have just completed my nth Barn Owl nestbox, so I do know whereof I speak. What I do not know whereof is why, no matter how carefully I measure up before cutting the wood, nothing ever fits. If I could grow instant 400-year-old oaks with nest cavities, I promise you I would never make another box.
AFTER

Deadly Sins

I was once arrested for trying to push over a double-decker bus. The year, 1954, the venue the High (Street) in Oxford, the occasion Guy Fawkes Night (November 5), the reason, I was drunk and over-excited, the outcome: the Proctors fined me £10 and told me not to do it again. I didn't do it again.
Boy, am I glad I got that off my chest!
I once climbed out of a warm bed, leaving my girlfriend sleeping, in order to go up one floor and climb into bed with another lady. The year, 1957, the reason, excessive randiness, the outcome, zilch. The upstairs lady rejected me, and the downstairs lady never knew about my (unfulfilled) transgression. So, in the end, only my soul was scarred: no other injuries.
Boy, am I glad I got that off my chest!
I once had a great Italian meal in the Amalfi restaurant in Old Compton Street in Soho. The year, I don't remember but somewhere in the 70s, the occasion, I was in London on business. I was so fired up that on my walk back to the hotel from the Amalfi, I passed a pizza house and went in and ate a pizza. Gluttony. Nasty gluttony. I never did anything like that again.
Boy, am I glad I got that off my chest!
Don't worry, good buddies, only three hundred and forty three more confessions and I will be shriven.
Thanks for listening.