Despite the insistence of the BBC, I, personally, am not thrilled by the return of football to their menu of televisual delights. ‘Everyone is thrilled that football is back!’ trills Zoe Ball, getting all ‘emotional’ on her breakfast show and continuing to ask five questions where one will do. ‘No, we are NOT!’ says I. I’ve re-tuned the kitchen radio to Radio Shropshire. The woman has been grating on me for a while, and I’m not talking half a pound of an extra mature Cheddar, either. I return my loyalty to Radio 2 once Ken Bruce arrives at 9.30. He plays tunes and chitty-chats in convivial and moderate tones. As a light entertainment radio presenter should. No politics, no religion, no personal opinions and, most importantly, allowing his guests to get a word in edgeways. Sometimes I continue listening onwards at midday to Jeremy Vine. It depends on how much I want to be thrilled by his gob-smacking stupidity. Sometimes, I just can’t be bothered. Sometimes, the effort I have to put into sighing and eye rolling at his banality and crassness can be quite exhausting.
Actually, I’ve been testing out other radio stations and programmes. I quite Like Radio 3 - a bit of classical loveliness, often educational. I have to be careful about Radio 4 because it often enrages me, but sometimes, if you’re careful, you happen upon hidden gems, and they are, of course, home to ‘The Archers.’ The problem is, that I am becoming increasingly disillusioned by the BBC, but I don’t like listening (or watching) commercial stations because of the constant advertising interruptions. What I need to do is sort through my CD collection and line up non-stop George Ezra, Caro Emerald, classical compilations etc etc to have as background noise when I am writing. I’ll pop it on the ‘To Do’ list.
I’m rather worried about a woodpecker that has been visiting the bird feeding station. It appears to have become fixated with scoffing back as many fat balls as it can, to the exclusion of all other birdy visitors. Sometimes the tit (blue and great) babies gather en masse and dangle from the fat ball feeder 9 or 10 at a time, so Woodpecker can’t get a look in, but if Woodpecker gets there first, he clings on in an ‘It’s all MINE!’ fashion, stuffing his little woodpecker face and growing more rotund by the day. I fear I’m going to find him on the path one day, feet in the air, wings akimbo, victim of excess gluttony, his innards clogged up with enough fat to give a pate fois grasse goose a run for its money.
Do I remove the fat balls and replace them with a nice selection of salad leaves, maybe? Some chopped apple and rice cakes? I don’t want to enrage Woodpecker. I don’t want to find him clinging to the back door, demanding I reinstate the fat balls, in the style of a Georgian Prince Regent banging his dining table until ample German sausages are brought forthwith. But sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. Perhaps I shall continue observing his feeding habits and make my move on the health kick front when I see him struggling to get off the ground.
(As an aside, I recently tried to construct a bird related word search puzzle to go into the newsletter we send out to service users of the care farm where I work. The website tool I used informed me that ‘woodpecker’ was a banned word. Huh? Reader, I made my own grid in order that ‘woodpecker’ could be included...)
And this arrived in the post last week! A lovely random snazzy surprise from my daughter...
It’s a mister for misting plants. And not a mister, being the opposite of a missus. She thought it would look adorable in our new snazzy greenhouse, and she is quite right. Oddly, I’ve been thinking of buying a mister, because I think the art of misting would benefit some of my houseplants, so her gift was timely and spot on. And I haven’t ONCE puffed it at the cats to see their reaction. (She lied.)
What DID startle the cats, especially Flora, was the arrival of this, a gift from a friend (don’t ask...)....
Press its wing and it dances around to the tune of ‘The Camptown Races’. Like I said - don’t ask...
Comments
We have a three legged/armed squirrel at the moment. I might even stand a fair chance of catching it. But I feel sorry for it. So I don't. Especially as Himself has been clearing out his shed and has found the old Storm Trooper style water pistol. AND put a new battery in it..
Jessica - I wonder what happened to that poor squirrel to render it tripod? Oh, and there’s a unique drawing heading your way of fat ball stealing squirrels!