A Bird in the Bush. Part 2.

I’ve just come back from paradise. I’ve been in the Seychelles, a place so beautiful that the people who discovered it thought that they had found Eden. The climate is warm but not dry. The achingly white beaches wrap themselves around rounded granite boulders bigger than houses and dripping, steaming jungles rich with palm trees and ferns. And all of this is gently embraced by the sea, a patchwork of blues and aquamarines and indigos. There is no better place in the world for a holiday.


It's quite nice, is what I'm saying.

It’s quite nice, is what I’m saying.

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A Bird in the Bush. Part 1.

I’ve never been a conspiracy theorist. If there really is a secret cabal running the affairs of the world, like the Bilderberg group, the Rosicrucians, or the Illuminati, they are so obviously incompetent that they deserve our sympathy, not our fear. I used to think the whole concept was just an idle fantasy. A fun but harmless thing for superannuated teenagers and lonely computer engineers to cling to, to while away the long, dark hours round midnight.

Does anyone remember where we left the keys for the upstairs bathroom?

Does anyone remember where we left the keys for the upstairs bathroom?

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For the Birds

I’m not a birder. For the same reason I’m not a suicide bomber. Every faith has its fanatics, its extremists, its lunatic fringe who take things too far, and if wildlife were a faith, the birders would be the ones trying to sneak through airport security with a shoe-heel full of plastic explosive and a craft knife hidden in a hollowed out copy of Roberts Birds of Southern Africa.


A birder quietly pursuing his gentle hobby.

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Keeping an eye open for our owls

The book has been on the back-burner for a couple of days. We’ve been a little busy, but most of all the weather has just been miserable. The temperature has been below zero (centigrade), and the water has frozen in the pipes outside. This may not sound all that impressive to those of you from Northern climes, but bear in mind that we cheerfully build our houses as if we lived in Borneo. We tell ourselves that winter doesn’t last very long, dress warmly and sit huddled around heaters and fires. Our own house has inch wide gaps under the doors, and only about half the windows close properly. It’s very hard to type when you can’t move your fingers. Continue reading