The Count of Monte Cristo

 

The Count of Monte Cristo

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

We were watching the Olympic windsurfing off Marseille in the Mediterranean. 

It was impressive and the commentary was informative. Barry was talking me through race tactics, none of which were sticking, while I was wondering what horse racing had to do with it. Then I realised it was course racing - or coarse racing? No, course racing. 

 One of the commentators said something about where the Count of Monte Cristo had lived. It almost sounded as though he thought Le Comte de Monte-Cristo had been an actual person rather than a figment of Alexandre Dumas’ imagination, who was helped to realisation by his collaborating writer, August Maquet.

It’s akin to people believing that Sherlock Holmes was a real person living at 221B Baker Street. 

Arthur Conan Doyle was inspired to create the great detective by Doctor Joseph Bell, whom he met in 1877 and worked for as a clerk. Joseph Bell (1837-1911), was a Scottish surgeon and a lecturer in medicine at Edinburgh University. He emphasised the importance of careful observation when diagnosing ailments and was often able to determine a patient’s employment by so doing. He became a forerunner in forensic science, especially pathology, at a time when such methods were in their infancy in criminal investigations. He wrote several medical textbooks and was also Queen Victoria’s personal physician when she was in Scotland.

The fantasy of Sherlock Holmes being a real person is further encouraged by the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street, which is actually at 239 Baker Street. The museum opened in 1990 and even has a blue plaque. A blue plaque is a marker to commemorate famous people or notable events. 

As an insight into the Victorian London of an iconic detective, it is unparalleled and entirely fictitious. The accoutrements of Victorian life are there in abundance and visitors may be forgiven for feeling slightly confused by this elaborate acknowledgement of a literary fabricated phenomenon.

There’s a lot of it about . . .

 

There’s a lot of it about . . .

                               Eve and Barry, twenty years ago

I hear this phrase so frequently and am never sure whether it’s meant in sympathy or censure. I care not at all.

The ‘it’ I refer to is a bug of unknown provenance, since we never go anywhere or see anyone (sn’f, sn’f) Anyway, wherever it popped up its evil little head, it’s got Barry fair and square and he’s coughing and spluttering fit to bust. After a couple of days of me suggesting and then ordering him to bed, he finally complied when he was feeling too rough to tough it out, and there he remains, watching rugby and boxing and Olympics and sleeping, alternating between fiery hot and icy cold.

Another expression that is often heard in such circumstances is, ‘It’s gone to his chest.’ What a silly thing to say. Where else would you expect a chest infection to manifest itself?

Asked how he feels, he either says, ‘A bit better, I think,’ or, more worryingly, ‘Not feeling too good,’ but mention of consulting a doctor brings a robust if slightly wheezy, ‘I’m not that ill.’ So, I continue to dose him at regular intervals and lie in bed at night listening to him breathing. If I can’t hear him breathing, I lay hands on him, though not in a miracle performing way, to assure myself that his lungs are inflating and deflating rhythmically. This is something I have been doing for decades, literally. I’m always quite relieved to hear him snoring, though it’s sometimes difficult to ascertain precisely which mammal in the bedroom is sawing logs.

He’s currently on day 6 of the affliction so hopefully he will start genuinely feeling better soon. He’s just told me he’s got a bad case of Man Flu, so there’s a glimmer of humour appearing again. He’s normally a very positive person – generous, too, as I now have a scratchy throat and headache and feel hotter than the warm day would warrant.

There’s a lot of it about . . .

In happier news, it’s my youngest granddaughter’s birthday today. Eve is twenty-three – I remember that age. It was lovely.

Cloning

 

Cloning

                                    Dolly the sheep 1996-2003

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I have been thinking about cloning, not as a pastime, you understand, but as a concept.

National Geographic says, ’Cloning is a technique scientists use to make exact genetic copies of living things. Genes, cells, tissues, and even whole animals can all be cloned.

Some clones already exist in nature. Single-celled organisms like bacteria make exact copies of themselves each time they reproduce.’

Parthenogenesis, sometimes known as ‘virgin birth,’ is a complex subject and a form of cloning. Asexual reproduction only requires one parent organism, a female, and resultant offspring are genetically identical. Although it may seem an efficient method of increasing numbers, it is also likely that their vulnerability is enhanced because there is decreased genetic diversity. Any inherent weaknesses in the parent will be replicated in the offspring.

Possibly the largest animals to reproduce asexually are the Hammerhead shark and the Zebra shark. In 2001, a captive hammerhead shark gave birth to a normal live female. She had had no contact with a male for at least three years.

Just look at those eyes! 

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Similarly, a zebra shark in Australia gave birth to three live babies in 2017, although she had been separated from her mate since 2012. Genetic testing proved that the young sharks carried DNA only from their mother.  

Asexual reproduction can take other forms than parthenogenesis.

In fragmentation, which occurs in starfish, the organism breaks into several parts, each part developing into a complete new organism. Sea stars may reproduce sexually and asexually. In some instances, a starfish will deliberately break off a part and regenerate that part, while the broken part will grow a whole new body.

Fission is similar but even simpler. The organism divides itself into two new bodies, each identical. Fission is the commonest form of asexual reproduction.

Other organisms reproduce themselves by budding. The organism grows a ‘bud’ or extension that eventually separates from the original to become an independent creature. For example, Hydras are freshwater creatures that demonstrate asexual budding. They have been in existence for about 200 million years, so were alive in the Late Triassic period when the first, frequently small, two-legged dinosaurs appeared.

Other animals that can reproduce asexually include Komodo dragons, whiptail lizards, pythons, wasps and ants.

Earthworms are interesting. Probably every schoolboy knows – at least, in the dark ages before sophistication, they did – that an earthworm cut in half will become two earthworms. Earthworms cannot reproduce asexually of their own volition. Earthworms are hermaphrodites, carrying male and female sex organs, and can self-fertilise, although that is not the norm.

There are no instances of mammals reproducing parthenogenetically.  

Reproductive cloning begins in a laboratory. The first successfully cloned animal was Dolly the sheep, in 1996. She died when she was seven. Many animals have been cloned since, but they often show cardiac anomalies, or limb and facial aberrations. Cloning has a success rate of about 20% (Columbia University, NY, 2018) That means that 80% of attempts fail because of abnormalities.

Therapeutic cloning or somatic cell nuclear transfer (SCNT) creates human embryonic stem cells. This is known as ‘cloning for therapeutic purposes.’ Though promising, research is still in its infancy and fears of creating humans in the laboratory are unfounded.

Paris Olympics 2024

 

Paris Olympics 2024

                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

We sat and watched the opening ‘ceremony’ on Friday night. We sat through it to the bitter end, trying to make sense of what we were seeing. The media this morning helped to clarify some matters

  

The concept was original – well, fairly original. A flotilla of boats, large and small made their way along the Seine in the pouring rain. That was quite jolly.

We saw ladies on tall poles, swaying elegantly. Apparently, they were singing, but we couldn’t hear that. We saw a woman in red holding her severed head. So important was she that she was seen in many, many windows. I think it was Marie Antoinette, but I could be wrong. I am wrong – it was to mark the Revolution, though surely men revolted just as much as women. I find a number of men revolting, but that’s not relevant.

At various points we saw gyrating people – I think they were dancing, but it 

wasn’t always clear what they were doing. At the same time there was a catwalk along which cavorted a collection of oddly dressed people and Parisian drag queens, and I read that there was a blasphemous interpretation of the Last Supper, about which many folks became very exercised. There was also a depiction of Dionysus, the Greek god of winemaking, fertility and festivity, among other things. A French singer-songwriter stripped naked and painted blue was an unattractive sight sitting on a platter of fruit. Dionysus was also the god of insanity and that seemed rather more appropriate. People were quick to describe him as a Smurf.

Running alongside this was a strange creature wearing what looked like a beekeeper’s hat and veil and without a face, traversing wet roof tops and walls, appearing and disappearing at odd moments. This was the torchbearer and a reference to a video game called ‘Assassin’s Creed.’ It was lost on me, but I suppose it would be. There was a version of the Can Can but why there were men alongside the dancers was a mystery. Inclusivity, maybe?

There were some touching moments. A rendition of ‘Imagine’ was sweetly sung, accompanied by sensitive piano playing, miraculously not ruined by the driving rain. Céline Dion also sang beautifully, but so near the end of the ceremony that I’m sure many hundreds or thousands of people would have given up long before she appeared, four hours after the commencement of the jollifications. There was some fine opera singing, too.

The mechanical silver horse riding on top of the waters of the Seine was impressive, though I did wonder if it would ever reach the end of its journey. The change to a real white horse was a relief, but it would have been nice to see it travel a little further on dry land. The torch was accepted and passed by many to many - too many! - and finally the Olympic cauldron was lit underneath a hot air balloon, and we wondered and hoped it was securely attached to something and would not float away in succeeding days . . . or explode!

There were many things missing – no nod to Marie Curie, or Louis Pasteur, or Jacques Cousteau, no Berlioz, Ravel or Debussy, no Maurice Chevalier or .Édith Piaf. Where were the artists? Degas, Matisse, Renoir, Cézanne, Seurat. Writers? Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Balzac, Camus, Sartre.

It was five years in the planning, but it was damp and disappointing, mainly. I hope the Games themselves will deliver more excitement and passion.

 . . . and there were Minions. Why?

Itchy snitch

 

Itchy snitch

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

If your nose itches, the saying is, ‘Be kissed, be cursed or shake hands with a fool.’ At least, that is what I remember. However, in Wiltshire, the response  is, ‘Should your nose itch you will either be kissed, cursed, vexed, run against  a gatepost, or shake hands with a fool,’ whereas in Norfolk, the saying is, ‘If  your nose itches you'll hear some news: left side – ‘bad', right side – ‘good', or you will be kissed by a fool.’

I can find neither rhyme nor reason for these sayings – they’re just nonsense. They must have started somewhere, but under what circumstances?

An itchy nose is sometimes a precursor to a sneeze.

Sneezing had several explanations in less enlightened times. In the Middle Ages people believed that sneezing rid the body of evil spirits, or that the body was laid open to the Devil to make his entrance, overcome and take possession of the sneezer.

During the Black Death in the 14^th century in Europe, sneezing was a worrying symptom that might lead to bubonic plague. That was a natural and logical reaction.

Meanwhile, the Christian church believed the heart stopped during a sneeze and some people still believe that a person is closest to sudden death while sneezing.

None of these seem to lead logically or seamlessly to being kissed, cursed or shaking hands with a fool! That is, apart from bubonic plague, which would certainly be a curse.

Three little pigs

 

The three little pigs

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I saw a version of this on another site and it made me smile.

 

The three little pigs went out to dinner one night.

The waiter came to take their drink orders.

‘I’d like gin and tonic,’ said the first little piggy.

‘I’d like white wine,’ said the second little piggy.

‘I’d like water, lots and lots of water,’ said the third little piggy.

 

When the waiter asked them if they were ready to order their main course, the first little piggy said, ‘I’d like a big, juicy steak.’

The second little piggy said, ‘I’d like fish and chips.’

The third little piggy said, ‘‘I’d like water, lots and lots of water.’

 

Asked if they’d like dessert, the first little piggy said, ‘I’d like apple pie and custard.’  

The second little piggy said, ‘I’d like lemon sorbet.’

The third little piggy said, ‘‘I’d like water, lots and lots of water.’

 

The waiter was puzzled and said to the third little piggy, ‘Excuse me for asking, but why have you only ordered water for every course?’

The third little piggy said, ‘Well, one of us has to go wee, wee, wee all the way home.’

 

The Keel Row

 

The Keel Row

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 Thinking about the Kiel Canal brought to mind the song, ‘The Keel Row,’ only because Kiel and Keel rhyme! As with most folk songs, there are variations.

https://youtu.be/qZ8u1ZE-reo?si=K4q7Tg8YnvL8OzA6

As I came thro' Sandgate,
Thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate,
As I came thro' Sandgate,
I  heard a lassie sing:
      "O, weel may the keel row,
      The keel row, the keel row,
      O weel may the keel row
      That my laddie's in.

He wears a blue bonnet,
Blue bonnet, blue bonnet,
He wears a blue bonnet
A dimple in his chin.
      And weel may the keel row,
      The keel row, the keel row,
      And weel may the keel row
      That my laddie's in.

‘The Keel Row’ is a traditional folksong based on the work of the keelmen of Newcastle upon Tyne. Keels were flat-bottomed boats, which carried coal from the shallow banks of the river to small wooden coal-carrying ships called colliers. The colliers waited in the Tyne to transport the coal down the east coast to London.

Each keel carried a skipper, two crewmen called ‘bullies’ and a boy. ‘Bully’ meant brother or comrade.

The keel row was a huge oar used to propel the boat and was manned by the bullies and the boy. In lieu of a rudder, a ‘swape’ or steering oar at the stern determined the direction of travel. Presumably, the skipper worked this oar.

The life of the keelmen was hard. They had to load the coal, row the heavily laden keel to the collier, navigating the currents and the shifting sandbanks, and unload it. That was made more difficult because the keel lay lower in the water than the collier. In addition, the men were exposed daily to coal dust, often resulting in respiratory problems.

The job was passed from generation to generation, sons taking over from their fathers when they were thought strong enough. Most men were unable to continue working after their forties because of the arduous nature of the labour.

In 1702, the keelmen built the Keelmen’s Hospital in Sandgate, an almshouse for sick and ailing keelmen and their families. It was supported by contributions from each keel’s crew.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The mention of Sandgate in the song refers to the fact that the keelmen lived in Sandgate, an impoverished, overcrowded area outside Newcastle city walls.

Cephalopods

 

Cephalopod

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Cephalopods include octopuses, squid, cuttlefish and nautilus. There are over 800 species of these fascinating animals. Octopuses have eight arms. Squid and cuttlefish additionally have two long tentacles which are used for capturing prey, so are usually described as having ten arms. Nautilus has anything from 50 to more than 90 tentacles, but only 42 are visible.

The Quintopus is a rare and colourful member of the Cephalopod family. It has a soft body, covered in a furry substance, and bright blue eyes surrounded with long lashes. Remarkably, the quintopus has only five tentacles, which contain material that rustles when touched.

It is a favourite of Gilbert’s.

The Quintopus, like the octopus, can change colour!

Fouetté

 

Fouetté

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I woke up with this word on my mind. I have no idea why as I haven’t been watching ballet recently and have never studied it in great depth.

The word comes from the French fouetter, meaning to flog or whip.

A fouetté or ‘fouetté rond de jamb en tournant’, to give it its full name, is a movement in ballet in which the dancer stands on one foot and moves the free leg in a whipping motion in front or behind the body while spinning. It is an extremely difficult move to perfect and takes determination and hours of practice.

Most professional ballet dancers train for about six hours a day for six days of the week and are judged to be among the fittest of all athletes. The nature of their work means that their bones are strengthened as well as their muscles, because dancing is a weight-bearing occupation.  After eight to ten years of training, a professional ballet dancer’s life as a performer does not usually last beyond the age of thirty-five. There are exceptions, of course.

The ballets in which thirty-two fouettés can be seen are Swan Lake, in the pas de deux of the Black Swan, and the wedding pas de deux in Don Quixote.

Summer holidays

 

Summer holidays

The latest postbox topper anticipates sunny days on golden beaches.

We can all dream!

People are looking forward to a change of pace.

 I will soon discover what the  Pumpkin Mice have been doing .

Friday

 

Friday

Friday was graduation day for my third grandson, Louis. He has worked extremely hard for three years to achieve his Physics degree. I don’t know what the future will hold for him, but it has been a privilege to watch him and his older siblings growing up.

It will be several years before my three youngest grandsons have to decide whether they will go to university and what they will study. Who knows what options will be available to them?

Friday also marked the end of term and the end of the academic year in Berkshire. My fourth grandson, Frankie, has finished primary school and must now move on from being a big fish in a little pond to becoming a tiny fish in a markedly larger lake. His cousin, Isla, my eldest great-granddaughter, breaks up on Monday in Dorset, and, like him, will move to a much bigger school in September.

Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles watch with hope and interest as all these young people move forward to the next phase of their lives.

Flower Festival

 

Flower Festival

The biennial village carnival was last week. The charity chosen to be supported was the RNLI and the theme was ‘Surfing the Seven Seas.’

The week-long activities began with a procession to the local recreation ground and finished with a flower festival in one of the local churches. Various schools, clubs, societies and organisations found innovative ways of interpreting the theme. We went on Monday afternoon, expecting it to be quiet, but it was surprisingly busy.

I have posted a selection of arrangements. The first one shows a surfboard amid rolling ‘waves’ of flowers, as we are encouraged to see. 

I liked the miniature surfer and the flip-flops but the detail that amused me most was the message in a bottle!

The notes for the displays were informative and in some cases imperative in understanding the interpretation.

Explorers were featured. 

 

There were twenty-six displays in all, and all the pillars and  pew ends had been decorated, too. Such a lot of hard work goes into these arrangements. I hope the RNLI received lots of donations.

Royal Golden Guernsey Goats

 

                  Royal Golden Guernsey Goats 

   Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

On 16^th July King Charles granted the Golden Guernsey Goats the ‘Royal’ title. The King and Queen were visiting the Channel Islands, which are Crown Dependencies, like the Isle of Man. Although they are not part of the United Kingdom, ‘the UK is responsible for the defence and international relations of the islands.’ The Channel Islands are among the Crown’s oldest possessions, dating from before the Battle or Hastings in 1066, when they were part of the Duchy of Normandy.

I’m sure the royal visit featured in the broadcast media, but we have been avoiding all news programmes for fear of endless analysis of the failed English bid to secure the UEFA European Cup.

The Royal Golden Guernsey Goat is an exceedingly rare breed of dairy goat, with fewer than 1400 in the world. They are thought to have descended from golden or red coloured goats brought to Guernsey by merchants from the Mediterranean. Their coats range in colour from light blonde to dark bronze and may be long or short or any mixture between. They are known as scrub goats, because they can survive on less productive land and are often used to clear brambles and other unwanted plants.

They have been present in Guernsey for about two hundred years and were nearly lost during the German occupation in the Second World War when most livestock was slaughtered. Miss Miriam Milbourne, who had been breeding them from the 1930s to save them from extinction, managed to hide her small herd from the Germans, risking execution if she had been exposed.

They are docile and affectionate and smaller than other dairy goats. They yield less milk, around four or five pints, but what they give is higher in butter fat and protein, making it ideal for cheese and yoghourt production.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons   

Best crop

 

Best crop

The promise!

Apricots are my husband’s favourite fruit and years ago, our eldest daughter gave us an apricot tree. Every spring, beautiful blossom appeared and set. Every summer, immature fruits dropped to the ground and the harvest of ripe apricots was between two and three.

Looking promising . . .

This year, when just about every other fruit has failed, apart from raspberries, the apricots have excelled themselves. There were a few early droppers, but we were delighted to be able to pick these.

A very wet spring and early summer and little sun or warmth seem to have suited our apricot tree. It’s not a huge harvest, but it’s so much better than it ever has been.

There were more, but they have been consumed!

 Blowhard

                                            Full of hot air

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

By chance, I happened on a very expressive word the other day – bloviate. The dictionary informs me that it is an informal American verb, meaning 'to talk at length, especially in an inflated or empty way’.

A person who bloviates could be described as a blowhard, a boastful, pompous person who professes vast knowledge and experience, but is soon found to be full of noise and wind. The word comes from the nickname for a sailor in the late 18^th century and probably referred to his occupation as a person often subjected to stormy weather. Its further or additional meaning as a braggart came about in 1840.

A blowhard may be a woman, but the term is more usually applied to a man. Politicians are often described thus, sometimes unjustly.

Blowhards are exceedingly difficult people with whom to converse because they know everything and will never admit that they have made a mistake as they cannot believe they would ever be wrong. They are insensitive and talk over others, and most people soon abandon any attempts at a meaningful dialogue. 

It is doubly difficult, because the blowhard never listens to any voice other than his own, which is usually very loud. It has to be loud because he claims that he likes to perform poetry in pubs or on the tops of mountains, among other things.

 Strangely, although he shouts most of the time, he cannot project his voice. If asked to read a passage in a quiet location, like a library, a museum or a hall, his voice fades away and is barely audible.

 You may have a friend who is a wine connoisseur. The blowhard enthusiastically knows everything your friend knows, and more. Not only is he incapable of listening, but his information is also frequently inaccurate and oft repeated. 

He knows as much history as the most scholarly historian, has journeyed as widely as the best travel-writer, is an intuitive scientist, a would-be explorer, an expert antiquarian and a wonderful architect. He is an expert on all sports on land, in the air or on the sea (and under it). Nothing he hears surprises him because he’s heard it all before. In fact, he was probably born knowing everything.

He has his own way of pronouncing words, which makes them incomprehensible to any listener. So convincing is his mispronunciation, that people begin to think he has used words with which they are unfamiliar and scurry off to try to find out more about them. Perhaps because of this, his writing and spelling are confusing, and his grammar is poor.

The blowhard does little to help at home or in the workplace, but roundly criticises those who do the work for not doing it the way he would have done it, had he found the energy to stand up and get on with it. He is lazy, content to watch and disparage others. 

He likes the ‘good things’ in life and pursues them, even though he cannot afford them, but it is important to him that he is seen to be keeping up with his ‘friends’. He likes to appear at all the major sporting and cultural events of the year. To this end, his ‘social calendar’ is full, though he is never likely to gain admittance to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot or be awarded a VVIP lapel badge. In fact, he would be fortunate to have even a VIP badge. 

The blowhard claims anyone he has ever met to be a friend, or even ‘a great friend.’ Whether people are pleased to be honoured with such friendship is questionable. When someone’s name comes up in conversation, he will say, ‘Oh, yes, I know him/her very well.’ Later, you discover that he has met this person once or twice and did not make a good impression on them.

In short, the blowhard is a tiresome individual, but happy, because he knows he is always right and that his way of doing things, if he ever does them, is the correct and only way. Of course, he talks himself into trouble and works hard to talk himself out again, using all sorts of excuses to extricate himself.

It is never his fault, and he never apologises, for, after all, why should he?

Do you know any blowhards? I’ve met several, even worked with some, and seen many more.

Breeding for temperament

 

Breeding for temperament

                        Jellicoe , Isambard and Herschel as kittens

Those who choose to share their lives with dogs are aware of the importance of breeding for temperament. Selective breeding enhances or encourages certain characteristics, for shepherding, for retrieving, for detection and so on. It is well-established in the dog world and effective and safe if conducted thoughtfully.

I wondered if there were any such programmes for the breeding of pedigree cats. I don’t know of any, but I do know that responsible breeders pay great attention to potential inherited health issues and choose their proposed litters’ parents with great care.

Why are some cats aloof and dislike being stroked, emphasising this by washing obsessively if they are touched? Other cats actively seek out human companionship and welcome new people with loud cries of pleasure.

The simple answer is that kittens become habituated at an early age. If they are treated gently as well as being exposed to the busyness of a home, they will generally be happier and calmer with strangers and their own people.

However, as with all simple answers, it’s not so straightforward. Two cats live in a house near us, a brother and sister. They have the freedom to go outside. The boy sits outside his house and allows all the children going to school to stroke him and talk to him. He even follows the children for a short while before returning to his post. He never strays far from home. His sister prefers to find a quiet spot in a neighbour’s garden and is rarely seen by people outside her family. They have been together all their lives and have had identical experiences and upbringing.

My middle daughter has three house cats. The two Somalis (semi-long-haired Abyssinians) are litter brothers and have never been separated. Lenny loves all people and loudly demands attention from anyone who enters the house. His brother, Solomon, does not seek out the company of anyone other than my daughter. He is happy to observe life and have an occasional petting. Her third cat, Zula, is an enchanting little Abyssinian who has eyes only for Susannah.

 Herschel and Jellicoe are also litter brothers. Their third brother died young and until he left, we didn’t realise he was the dominant cat. Isambard was a quiet, very affectionate cat and always wanted to be with a human – child or adult, he didn’t mind. Jellicoe was happy to sit on a lap now and then, but Herschel was a very private character, keeping himself to himself, tolerating rather than seeking attention. After Isambard’s passing, Herschel really came out of his shell and his character developed. There was never any nastiness between the brothers, but clearly Herschel was over- shadowed. Now he is rarely far from one or other of us. Both he and Jellicoe are very chatty cats, but Jellicoe, who is at least a third smaller than his brother, is the dominant boy.

                                    Isambard, Jellicoe and Herschel

We used to breed Burmese cats, in a small way. Our two queens, mother and daughter, trusted us and allowed us to handle their kittens from birth. The kittens were cuddled and kissed and loved by our children and their friends.

                    Granddaughter Marnie with blue Burmese Pansy

Consequently, they were extremely confident, happy and bomb-proof. Even so, some were more outgoing than others, so nature rather than nurture seemed to be the dominant factor.