Blue-footed booby

 

Blue-footed booby (Sula nebouxii)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The blue-footed booby appeared on my screen recently, so I had to investigate it.

The name booby derives from bobo, the Spanish word for clown because, like many seabirds, the booby is ungainly on land. Bobo also means foolish, because the bird shows no fear of man, a potential threat.

It is found along the coast from California to Peru and especially in the Galapagos Islands. It comes ashore to mate, lay eggs and rear its young.

 An adult booby is almost three feet long with a wingspan of five feet, and may live for seventeen years. The blue colouration of their feet is provided through their fishy diet and indicates their overall health. The brighter the colour, the healthier and stronger the bird.

Young birds have paler blue feet than adults and females have the most concentrated hue. The feet are important in the mating rituals. Males look for females with bright feet because they indicate youth. good health, and fertility. Females favour younger males, who have brighter feet. As birds age, so the colour of their feet fades.

The mating dance involves both sexes, the male displaying his feet with an exaggerated gait of wider and higher step, while male and female lift their beaks skywards and spread their wings.

After the clutch of two or three eggs is laid on bare ground, both parents take turns to incubate the eggs, using their feet to keep them warm.

There are three recognised collective nouns for boobies – a hatch, a trap, or a congress.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) lists the blue-footed booby as being of ‘least concern.’

Reminder

 

Reminder

                     Gilbert is glad he's not having a blood test this week!

We were congratulating ourselves on having a free diary this week, with no scheduled appointments, and then ‘ting’ a message appeared on Barry’s ‘phone. It was from Medivet, to remind us that Gilbert had a blood test scheduled for Tuesday afternoon at Parsons Green.

I checked my diary and Barry checked his – nothing! In any case, why Parsons Green? It is a residential area in Hammersmith and Fulham, thirty-nine miles from where we live. Two of the daughters live in London and have pets, but neither of them is anywhere near Parsons Green.

Sharyn was in Reception at our veterinary practice this morning and she was intrigued. She was able immediately to pinpoint when the appointment was made – about thirty seconds before the reminder dropped into Barry’s ‘phone! – and said she would contact the practice at Parsons Green. Would he like her to call him back? He thanked her and said that she was a busy person, and it wasn’t necessary. He was just concerned that there was a Gilbert ‘out there’ requiring a blood test, who might miss it.

We are curious, though, and would have loved clarification. Is Gilbert a dog, a hamster, a cockatoo, a snake? We’ll never know. We simply hope the message reached the right person eventually.

As ever, we were impressed by the efficiency of our veterinary practice. We know, from experience, that if it been a reminder from the NHS that we wanted to query or verify, we would have been passed from pillar to post. It would have taken most of the morning, speaking to oh-so-patient receptionists in various departments before someone somewhere would have been able to give us the answer.

So, we still have a clear week. Three cheers!

The Hub

 

The Hub

Buckler's Park
Image source

We trotted off on Saturday afternoon to receive our jabs.

We had booked our appointments at The Hub, a community hall on a growing estate, not far from where we live. Buckler's Park is full of forbidding, unfriendly-looking houses.

We had each received further encouragement from the NHS to book our appointments – I had one, Barry had three! -  alongside reminders to turn up for the ones we had booked.

The Hub Opened in Spring 2025, but the location has still not been picked up by TomTom. Although it is only around three minutes from our house by car, we drove round and round in circles ignoring TomTom as it tried to persuade us to travel to a village several miles away.

We asked a passerby if he knew where The Hub was, and he said, ‘You’re the third people who’ve asked me for directions this afternoon.’ It transpired that we were close to it. We had expected it to be quite quiet and therefore easy to find a parking space. We were wrong! It was packed.

The clinic, if such it could be called, was very efficiently organised. We were checked in at the door and then again at the jab station, of which there were several. My name was missing from the list despite the palaver we had gone through a couple of weeks previously and the assurance that everything was in order. The lady checking off names on her list added my details in pencil, alongside others whose names had been omitted.

Anyway, all is done, a stab in each arm and no ill effects.

I wonder how many reminders we will receive this week?

Sampler

 

Sampler

Rather than show the sampler, I thought I'd show the young adult relatives of the baby. This was the occasion of Hailey's parents' wedding, long before she and her elder sister put in an appearance. These are the six oldest grandchildren. 

CLockwise from top left: Callum, the happy bridegroom, now 28, Elliot, 27, Kiri, 30, Marnie, 32, Eve, 24, and Louis, 22.

I’m just finishing a cross-stitch sampler I started months ago to mark the birth of the youngest member of the family, Hailey, who was born in March. I started one, but it looked all wrong, so I abandoned it and began another. It doesn’t look too dreadful, and as I suspect it will be received with thanks and then ‘put away’ I’m not too bothered.

All I had left to stitch was the date. I’d counted all the squares and was just reaching the end when I realised I’d miscalculated and hadn’t centred it correctly. I couldn’t face unpicking it, so decided to improvise and add some flowers in the unplanned spaces.

Then I’ll wash it, mount it, and frame it. It’s the last birth sampler I’ll make. The next clutch of grandchildren doesn’t look ready to have babies yet, and cross-stitch isn’t quite their style anyway.

I enjoy cross-stitch, but I haven’t my mother’s skill with a needle, or her patience. Nobody will be bidding for my work in centuries to come!

Corduroy

 

Corduroy

Cotton corduroy (Manchester)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

Another long-held belief crumbled to dust recently when I looked up the origins of the word corduroy. It’s nothing to do with kings! 

Wikipedia explains: 

‘A common false etymology holds that the word "corduroy" derives from the French phrase corde du roi or the cord of the king. The word corduroy is from cord (i.e. rope) and duroy, which was a coarse woollen cloth made in England in the 18th century.

Corduroy is made by weaving extra sets of fibre into the base fabric to form vertical ridges called wales.’

There are different styles of corduroy material, ranging from standard to needlecord or pincord. Wide wale is used for furniture upholstery and trousers. Finer cord is used in garments like shirts, or dresses.

Corduroy has been in use since the 18^th century and became much more popular in the mid to late 20^th century. Although it is associated with country clothing, it was originally worn by people living and working in industrial towns.

In parts of Europe it is known as ‘Manchester.’

I started thinking about corduroy because Barry was considering buying new cords. He has a habit of jumping subjects and suddenly we were discussing corduroy roads, as he had been reading about the Eastern Front. Corduroy roads were crucial between 1941 and 1944, when troops met ground that had become impassable as a result of appalling weather conditions.

Camp scene showing winter huts and corduroy roads, between 1860-1865, USA
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

The name, ‘corduroy road’ came into existence in the late eighteenth century in the USA, because it loosely resembled corduroy material.  

  A corduroy road is a basic road created with logs laid over boggy ground at right angles to the track that is to be traversed. It makes forward progress possible, although it is rough and not easy to travel along. It provides a surface that is difficult, though not impossible, for wheeled and horse-drawn vehicles to use.

Excavation of a corduroy road from the 16th century, Oranienburg, Germany 

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

The earliest record of a corduroy road was in 1071 in England, as the Normans worked to defeat Hereward the Wake, on the Isle of Ely.

An adaptation of the corduroy road was the plank road, which used sawn planks instead of logs. These presented a smoother surface.

Relationships

 

Relationships

It was interesting to read comments on yesterday’s post. They pre-empted much of today’s post, but repetition and labouring a point have never stopped me in the past!

When I was growing up it was common for children to have less interaction with adults who were not part of the family. It was not a case of being seen but not heard, as in Victorian times, but children were not expected to participate in conversations unless invited to do so, and then it was a case of answering questions politely and not advancing ideas of one’s own.

If adults were addressed by children, it was as Mr or Mrs followed by the surname. Adult family friends might be called Auntie or Uncle. My parents were so busy trying to keep a small business afloat that they rarely had time to see old friends. Regular customers often became friends in a stratified sense, but given names were never used, even if visits were made to each other’s homes. I remember still Mrs Trimm, whose husband was in business, and Mrs Shearer, a rather lonely lady who had a lot of problems and depended on my parents for kindness and support. Miss Spriggs was an elegant lady, in whom I was in awe. Captain ? had been a Japanese prisoner of war and was accorded much respect.

I don’t remember honorary Aunties and Uncles and had no aunts and uncles to call my own. My only uncle lived in Canada. I met him once, and I never met my only cousin, his daughter.

As our parents grew older, it became apparent that the number of people addressing them by their first names was dwindling. In vain they tried to encourage us to change the habits of a lifetime and call them by their names, but it was difficult. I did manage to start calling my mother-in-law by her first name and continued that for the rest of her life.

My sister was fifteen years older than me, and I became an aunt when I was eleven years old. Of course, I was never going to be Auntie Janice, so my nieces and nephews called me Janice, or variations of that – Danice was a regular one.

Why do we persist with relationship titles? I have known children who call their parents by their given names and that makes sense, for that is what they hear their parents call each other. Auntie and Uncle sound strange to me on a child’s tongue because it was something with which I was unfamiliar. I had no living grandparents, either, so that was another relationship with which I had no experience.

If we insist on those titles, and some do, why do we not call our spouses Husband or Wife, and encourage children to call each other Cousin, or Sister, or Brother? What about Great-Aunt, Great-Grandfather, Second Cousin, Brother-in-law?

It is a matter of respect, it is claimed, but respect is something that must be earned, not given as of right. My youngest daughter attended a Quaker secondary school, where everyone was addressed by their first names – staff, students, governors, parents (though a few parents kicked hard against it!) There was no lack of respect for those who deserved it, and a healthy disregard for those who didn’t.

Long before I married, I decided that I never wanted to be called ‘Grandma.’ I didn’t ever want to reach a stage in life when no-one called me by my name. The battle is still fought in some quarters of my family. The grandchildren have reached a compromise with their mother. They address me by my name, and refer to me as ‘Grandma’ when  they speak to her.

Strangely enough, the one who is uncomfortable with my decision does not allow herself to be called Grandma, either. She has chosen Oma, the German form for Grandmother, but pronounces it differently. Her children, all now parents, encourage their children to use Auntie and Uncle, and I don’t know what adult friends are called. It’s confusing.

I like the Danish form of grandparental nomenclature. Mormor is the maternal grandmother – Mother’s mother - and Morfar is the mother’s father. Farmor is father’s mother and Farfar is the paternal grandfather. That’s straightforward. It doesn’t sound quite so easy in English, though - Mummum and Mumdad, Dadmum and Daddad, for example.

Perhaps we should adopt the Quaker custom and refer to everyone as ‘Friend.’

Perhaps I am out of step with everyone else, as usual.

Presumption

 

Presumption

A presumption can be anything from a guess to effrontery. What a useful word it is.

Many times, when one ‘phones for advice, or appointments, or complaints there is a point in the foothills of the conversation when details have been ascertained, that the following occurs: ‘Is it alright if I call you . . . ?’  Of course, in our house, we’re only too pleased to have this verisimilitude of social contact. Perish the day when no-one calls us by our names!

Anyway, this morning, Barry, rather grumpy, had occasion to call someone about something or other that had not been followed up, which was the cause of his irritability.

As usual, one call led to another, and his mood lightened as carefully-trained operatives or representatives – the title varies between companies – metaphorically smoothed his fevered brow.

 At one point, a cheerful young lady from Merseyside answered the ‘phone and inevitably came the inquiry, ‘Is it alright if I call you Harry?’

Oops! Barry is never rude, but his robust response was, ‘You certainly may not call me Harry. My name is Barry,’ which caused me to have a fit of the giggles.

By the end of the call, if they weren’t exactly swapping telephone numbers, they had established a friendly bond of understanding. It amazes me how  conversations can travel from business-like to personal so quickly.

Sometimes, it is unclear how people expect to be addressed. Our vets and all the staff at the practice introduce themselves by their given names and that is how we address them. The staff at our dental practice are similarly unambiguous. On the other hand, doctors and consultants occupy the middle ground. Some invite a friendlier connection, while others, perhaps a little shyer, are indeterminate and appear to stand on their dignity. I always go for the formal address, while Barry opts for more casual.

Sometimes, presumption takes the upper hand. On one occasion, I was waiting at the railway station late at night for Barry to return from London. I was listening to the radio when suddenly the passenger door was wrenched open, and a man abruptly uttered an address and told me to take him there. I spluttered and said, ‘I’m not a taxi,’ whereupon he apologised and withdrew.

 I don’t think quickly in the moment and wished later that I’d said something like, ‘Certainly, I can take you there, but I don’t know what my husband will say.’

Oh, the witty responses I could make, if only I could think fast enough.

Growing peppers

Growing peppers

All growing happily on the conservatory windowsill.

Digital piano

 

Digital piano

Some people are puzzle by how headphones can be associated with a piano. 

My hybrid piano is a full-sized 88-key Yamaha that looks rather like an acoustic upright piano, but rather more like a grand piano which has had it back end cut off!

It has the sound, touch and feel of a grand piano. It has built-in speakers, and a headphone jack, and the keys are weighted, so that the action replicates that of a standard piano.

It has no strings, so how does it create music? High-quality sample recordings of real grand pianos are played back when a key is depressed.

It comes with two grand piano ‘voices,’ and other keyboard sounds, like a harpsichord. Using external software, like Pianoteq, connected to a computer, I can ‘play’ a selection of grand pianos, for example, a Steinway, and a Grotrian Concert, among several others. 

It is possible to record on it. That would be a useful feature for someone intent on improving their performance, for external examination or recital. My playing is strictly for my ears only. I enjoyed accompanying children singing, but never played solo.

It feels quite different to my old acoustic piano. The keys on that felt heavy and clunky, and required a kind of ‘hammering’ to produce any sound. Subtle and smooth of action it was not!

As the Yamaha is digital, it does not need to be tuned, and that is definitely a bonus.

The strangest thing

 

The strangest thing

'The Woman Who Wished She Could Play the Piano' from an advertisement for a correspondence school,'Picture-Play Magazine,' 1922.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

Today, for the first time in months, I wanted to play my piano. It was enjoyable. I used headphones so no-one else was subjected to the racket and terrible mistakes I made. Despite all that, I found it relaxing.

I went back into the sitting room – the piano is in the dining room – and returned to my computer to type something and had the oddest feeling. The keyboard suddenly seemed far too small. Surely it should be much wider, and where had all the black notes – the sharps and flats gone? My fingers were searching in vain. Eventually, brain and hands reconnected and I was able to type reasonably competently once more.

Thank goodness it wasn’t a pipe organ with two or three manuals, an array of stops, and a pedalboard for the feet, or I should have been completely at sea, not least because I’ve never learnt to play a pipe organ. 😟

I wonder if the same thing will happen next time. Perhaps I should allow for a period of readjustment before switching between keyboards in future. Maybe my brain is simply addled. 

 

 

Ten years ago

These photographs popped up on my Facebook page today.

Left to right: Roxy, Jenna, Gus, Lolly, Bertie. 

Roxy and Lolly are still with us. Lolly is eleven and lives in London. Roxy is ten.

Roxy, Bertie and Jenna. Roxy still loves to carry a ball. She used to follow Bertie everywhere. Now she follows Gilbert!

Happy days!

Ye gods!

 

Ye gods!

This expression may have its origin in classical times, at a period in history when many gods were worshipped. In the 17^th century it was a variation of the more usual and blasphemous, ‘Oh, my God.’

At some point, ‘and little fishes’ was added, and was first seen in print in 1830. It may have been a gentle reference to the story of the feeding of the five thousand, recorded in all four gospels. The words were added to soften the phrase and turn it into a ‘minced oath.’ A minced oath is one which has been adapted or cut up to be less offensive.

Minced oaths have been used since the 14^th century, from Wikipedia:‘when "gog" and "kokk", both euphemisms for God, were in use. Other early minced oaths include "Gis" or "Jis" for Jesus (1528)’

Minced oaths may involve substituting similar words, or adjusting a phrase. Thus, gosh substitutes for God, heck for hell, and darn for damn. Gee derives from Jesus, Blimey from God blind me and Crikey from Christ. Even Jiminy Cricket is less innocent than it sounds – look at the initial letters.

Two-Can Toucan

 

Two Can Toucan

One of my favourite books for young children is ‘Two Can Toucan’ by David McKee. Like Elmer the Elephant, it takes readers gently through the difficulties associated with differing from one’s peers. I was reminded of this book the other day when a toucan appeared on my screensaver.

Pictures appear randomly day by day and there’s a widget to click on to discover information about them. Yesterday’s was a koala bear, and today’s is Halnaker Windmill, an historic landmark in Chichester, England.

The particular toucan displayed was a keel-billed toucan (Ramphastos sulfuratus) from Costa Rica. It also glories in the names ‘rainbow-billed’ or ‘sulphur-breasted’ toucan and is the national bird of Belize, in Central America.

Toucans have always fascinated me with their bright colours and extraordinary beak. What a schnozzle! I had never given much thought to their diet, but had assumed it was mainly fruit and berries. Indeed, they spend most of their time picking fruit with their multi-coloured bill, which is about one third of the bird’s total length, but they also eat insects, eggs, small birds, lizards, and reptiles when they can be found.

Though the beak may look heavy and awkward, it is very light, and contains many blood vessels which allow the bird to regulate its temperature.

Toucans are sociable birds, flying short distances together in small flocks. In family groups, they seem to play, tossing fruit to each other, or play-fight, using their bills.

Keel-billed toucan (Ramphastos sulfuratus)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

There are forty-three species of toucans, eight in the Ramphastos genus alone. Two Can Toucan remains my favourite, though. He might have been called Three Can Toucan, but you’ll have to read the book to find out why he wasn’t.

Have you?

 

Have you?

                                            Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

What a sad, small life it has become when our time is taken up with booking appointments and attending them. Not really, because we have lots of interests and not enough time to pursue them all.

Howsomever, (which I had never realised was a ‘proper’ word, and have just discovered is archaic, a bit like me) a few weeks ago we were ‘invited’ to book appointments for annual jabs, or are they six-monthly now? Anyway, being obedient little citizens, we proceeded to thread our way through the booking system and nabbed a couple of spots in early October. Yes, the site informed us that all was in order, or alles in ordnung, as Barry says, proving he still remembers some German. Job done, sit back and relax!

At the end of last week, we received another invitation from the NHS to book appointments for annual jabs! Cue double-takes and murmurs of disbelief, as we didn’t wish to be doubly jabbed! On checking, we discovered that our appointments had not been registered or noted or whatever is supposed to happen to them. That’s not strictly true, for when the very pleasant and helpful lady Barry had contacted checked a little lot deeper, she discovered that mine had been recorded, but Barry’s hadn’t. Hey ho!

Barry and the lady had a most enjoyable conversation and gentle rant about the failings of the NHS administration and the inability of the left hand to even acknowledge the existence of the right hand.

We often experience a sense of déjà vu and I’m afraid it is rearing its head in my blog, for which, apologies.

So, have you, and if you haven’t, why haven’t you? My children (odd to call them that when they’re mature adults) pay for their jabs, though one son-in-law doesn’t pay because he’s asthmatic. I don’t think middle daughter will have the jabs – she responds very poorly to them, and they make her quite ill. It’s a toss-up – have the jab and feel lousy for a few days, or contract the illness and feel lousy for a few days.

There are currently two common strains of Covid, Nimbus and Stratus, the majority of reported cases being the latter. As ever, if you are suffering from any respiratory illness, be selfish and keep it to yourself.

Now, wasn’t that a cheerful read?

An hour on my back

 

An hour on my back

Intra-oral scanner

Image source

On Monday afternoon I spent an hour on my back. It wasn’t for relaxation, though not particularly uncomfortable. Bright lights, loud buzzing, murmuring voices, some music I would never have chosen, but what could I say to my dentist? I was in his hands, literally.

I wondered if one of the requirements for acceptance to a dentistry degree would be small hands. After all, dentists work in a very restricted area and there’s not a lot of room for manoeuvre. It’s difficult enough when the drill is being used, but when the scanner is introduced, life becomes interesting.

A lilting melody is played as the instrument traverses the gums, and it would not be surprising to see a well-drilled (!) troupe of tiny fairies dancing in front of one’s eyes. Of course, I would not be able to see them since I always shut my eyes when I’m at the dentist’s mercy. 

Then Steph, the dental nurse, clearly in training, had a turn with the scanner. That was an altogether different experience and Vishal, the dentist, was pleased with her. He didn’t ask if I would mind her practising on me, probably knowing I would agree, but should he have checked?

Meanwhile, I was wondering if dental patients ever dislocated their jaws. Mine were beginning to ache, having been wide open for what felt like hours. I also pondered, again, if and how many times dental professionals are bitten by their patients.

I had been thinking beforehand about how I was going to entertain myself for the ninety minutes I had been threatened with promised, but in the end I was there for just sixty minutes. I have to return in a couple of weeks to have the crown fitted, taking home with me again the mould that had been made in July.

There was a small piece of broken tooth in the gum, which has now been persuaded from its resting place. Today, my back aches, I have a headache, and my gum is a little sore, but if that is all that ever troubles me, I shall be forever grateful.

Foraging

 

Foraging

                Grey spotted Amanita (Amanita excelsa) September 2025

Many people enjoy foraging, and this time of year is full of delight for them. Blackberries, sloes, elderberries, hazel nuts, and sweet chestnuts are just some of the bounty that can be collected.

Wild mushrooms are a different proposition. We have seen many people poking around at ground level for delicious treats. One French man we met showed us the basket of chanterelles he had gathered and was going to freeze. Chanterelles are often associated with beech and birch trees, and can be found between May and November.

Unless a person has been brought up to identify fungi, it is wiser to avoid gathering and cooking them. It is far too easy to make a mistake which may turn out to be deadly.

Left to right: Panthercap (Amanita pantherina) Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) and False deathcap (Amanita citrina) from 'Mushrooms' by Roger Phillips

The Amanita genus includes some of the world’s most toxic species, which can damage kidneys and liver irretrievably and result in death.

The grey spotted Amanita (Amanita excelsa) grows in mixed woodland and can be seen from July to October. It is edible and very common but must be thoroughly cooked before consumption. It has a strong mushroom smell when cooked.

It is not safe for amateur foragers to attempt gathering is because it is difficult to distinguish from the poisonous Panthercap (Amanita pantherina) Panthercap is not abundant and grows in most types of woodland, particularly beech, from July to November.

Confusingly, the edible Blusher (Amanita rubescens) looks similar to the Panthercap. It is common and widespread, and grows in mixed woodland from May to November. Although it is reputed to be very tasty, it must be thoroughly cooked to the destroy the poison (!) it contains, which is only destroyed by heat.

Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) is the striking red ‘toadstool’ with white spots, often seen in fairy tale illustrations and paintings of the autumn countryside. It is both toxic and hallucinogenic, but not usually deadly, unless a great quantity is eaten (more than ten) It can be found from August to December in mixed woodlands, particularly favouring birch woods.

The common name of Fly agaric comes from the mediaeval practice of breaking off pieces and putting them in milk to kill flies. Reindeer and red squirrels eat them and suffer no ill effects, though maybe that’s why reindeer fly.

Fungi seem to be a recurring theme on my blog. I have written about them here and here and here and here. 

 

Delivery

 

Delivery

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

We had a parcel delivery today. On the Reolink camera I saw the delivery man approach with the parcel and expected he would leave it at the door, so didn’t rush to answer when he rang the bell. He lingered, then tapped, then left, with the package under his arm. I decided I’d better go to the door.

By that time, he was back in his vehicle, but saw me and climbed out again. He told me he needed my date of birth. ‘You’re joking,’ I said, since, although everyone tells me I don’t look my age (thank goodness!) no-one could mistake me for an adolescent. He was serious, so I gave him the information, and he smiled and handed me the parcel.

It was light and addressed to Barry. When he arrived home with the dogs, he took one look and said, ‘Oh, that’ll be my axe.’

I had forgotten he was researching axes the day before. It’s a sign of extreme trust that this did not worry me. He needed to add a small hatchet to his array of sharp tools for chopping kindling.It’s a good thing I answered the door, or we would have been waiting for a redelivery.

‘Answering the door’ is a funny expression. It’s not as though the door poses questions or asks for explanations. It’s just there, providing a barrier between outside and inside, as well as a measure of insulation, and a means of easily identifying one house from another, so long as it bears a number or a name.

The screaming haka

 

The screaming haka

                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

As the Women’s Rugby World Cup approaches its climax, the men in my family settled to watch the semi-final between New Zealand and France at Twickenham. They are agreed that women’s rugby is faster-moving and played more as it used to be in the men’s game. It was a good match and the final, later on this Saturday afternoon, between the champions, England, and Canada, promises to be entertaining, too.

The major attraction for me was seeing and hearing the haka. Haka are ceremonial Māori dances performed in a variety of situations, from welcoming honoured visitors, to funerals, to a pre-match challenge or symbolic throwing down of the gauntlet. When men perform the haka before a rugby match, their voices resonate around the stadium, a powerful chant reverberating in the chests of the crowd. It is thrilling.

Women’s voices are shriller, more piercing, so that the overall effect is of shrieking rather than chanting. However, the Kiwis gave it their all.

Packs of people shouting and yelling occur in less friendly circumstances, demonstrating in the streets against perceived injustices. I have it on good authority that a mob of women screaming obscenities feels far more threatening than a crowd of men doing the same. The fairer sex is less than attractive when protecting their homes or communities. Men are intimidated by screeching harridans.

The rugby final was won by England, with a score of 33 to 13. It was a good match, played with concentration and intent until the very last minute. There was no aggression, and none of the fisticuffs sometimes seen in the men’s matches. It was the second largest crowd attendance of all time.

It was good to see the Canadian Prime Minister there, but where was the UK Prime Minister?

Keeping watch

 

Keeping watch

                                            Jellicoe and Gilbert

Gilbert often sits at the open patio door, gazing into the garden, sniffing the air, watching the birds. Note how his ears are pinned back, listening for any sounds of food preparation.

Jellicoe loves Gilbert and joins him at every opportunity. Together they are guarding the house and the humans against all comers.

Earlier, they were watching the big television screen, our window on the world, which acts like a moving panorama. It may show a canal journey, a drone view of Switzerland, Japanese rail travel, a myriad other things, or, as at present, nothing at all.

Onto the screen, courtesy of Steve Reed, came a jaunty young fox, to which Gilbert took great and noisy exception. He is not prone to barking, but something about a fox where it should not be really set his hackles up and raised his voice to full volume.

As he yelled at the television, so Roxy leapt from her bed and joined her voice to his. She had no idea why she was barking and was looking into the garden, hoping for a glimpse of whatever had upset her big friend. Herschel and Jellicoe ignored the hullabaloo, as cats are wont to do.

Eventually, with a mixture of admonishments and praise – ‘Stop it, that’s enough,’ and ‘Well done, good dogs,’ – peace was restored, and all the four legged animals resumed their slumbers.

In other news, we have succumbed to the chill and lit our first fire of the autumn. Herschel assumed his customary position, with his back to the warmth. The seasonal task of checking levels in the coal bunker will  recommence soon.

I half expect to see the silhouettes of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (Daniel, chapter 3) walking across the burning coals.