Ebay and everything that is wrong with this country

I have become addicted to getting rid of stuff from Chateau L and flogging it on Ebay. My house WILL look nice. The clever thing to do would have been to hire a skip for a fortnight and blitz it, simply closing my eyes when I found something that might have been worth something and tossing it in regardless. This would have been a much quicker route to success, however you can't argue with a recovery of several thousand pounds. The hassle has however been remarkable, boxes of junk hanging around the house for weeks, boxes and tape everywhere, endless packaging up, and then awkward trips to the post office before work. Worst of all however have been the general purchasing public. Some of them have almost made me regret not going down the skip route.

The worst are not the ones who bid, win, and then disappear never to be heard from again. I mean yeah they're annoying, definitely up there, but not the very worst. I'm currently waiting for someone who bought Mrs L's bike on day 30 of a day 30 listing to pay up. It's been over a week now and there has been complete radio silence. We were quite excited that somebody had finally bought it as it has been clogging up our shed for ages, but as I presciently observed when the auction ended, I'd only celebrate when it had gone. Four emails later and I've heard nothing whatsoever. I've got their address mind you, so in theory I could cycle the thing across London and toss it in their front garden. In pieces perhaps.

No, the worst ones are those who ask tons of questions, one after the other, including asking for information that is clearly listed in the description. Along the lines of “What size are the black 9F shoes you are selling?” This continues for some while, the questions getting more and more obscure or alternatively daft. “And what colour are they?”. Patiently you respond nicely, however tempting it might be to call them out as total idiots – the black shoes are black you complete cretin. And then you never hear from them again. Life is obviously too short to complain to them or about them, what is the point, but only once across loads of auctions have I had a guy come back and thank me for answering all his questions, but that he was very sorry as he had found a similar item nearer. I mean it's only polite isn't it?

Near the top of the list are those that write urgently insisting that the item be posted asap, first class (they have paid for second, the cheapskates), as they absolutely need it the following day. I go out of my way to get this done, to send it on precisely the day they want so that it arrives on a certain day. I know only to well how annoying having to stay in for a delivery is. And then you never hear from them again. Can you spot a trend? No thanks, no feedback, no nothing. You wonder why you bothered.

Then there are the ultra-agressive types. Those who type in capital letters, insisting that there is MAJOR PROBLEM with whatever it was, a scratch on the sole of a shoe for instance, and that unless you immediately give them a large refund they will be sending back the package at YOUR EXPENSE and YOU WILL PAY FOR IT. Right. To refer them to Arkell v. Pressdram is the very tempting response, but why bother for a fiver or whatever? The name of the game is to pacify. To grin and bear it. To make people feel like they are winners in life. All the while that skip looms in the back of your mind...

This I suppose is a microcosm of the British public, or that is what I am calling it anyway. The I'm all right Jack selfish attitude that blights our population. The loss of personalisation caused by social media, online shopping, and a general decline in knowing what it is to behave properly. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but surely it does not need to be this way? Shallow and vacuous, a little politeness goes a long way. Pleases and thank yous, it is not much to ask.

All this said, I have now managed to get rid of some 190 different things. This includes the aforementioned shoes – the buyer tried to wriggle out of it by the way but I was having none of it, lots of infrequently used optical equipment, a waistcoat, every single last piece of my extensive fishing gear collection, wooden trains, lego spaceships, copious amounts of whisky, a Dungeons and Dragons book from the late 1980s (why did I still have this?), old computer games, airline amenity kits, a 1950s light meter, the list is almost endless and every departure is a minor victory. Set against this is having to deal with people that I would probably actively avoid in real life. Thankfully it is nearing the end now, or at least until we attempt emptying the loft. A couple boxes of junk (yes I am the descendant of Gerald Ratner) linger on the upstairs landing, but they're gradually going down and it won't be long before I can chop them up and smuggle them into the weekly recycling. And then I may delete my account lest I ever do anything so stupid again. But let me first re-list this bloody bike. 

Snippets from the big wide world

Dealing with a few observations from recent times, this post is about dogs, massages, and twitter. All perfectly logical and highly complementary. I'll start with the dogs as it has been a while has it not? I've been saving this one up, not because I agree with it (go figure) but because I've been busy and then subsequently misplaced it. I found it again the other day tucked in a book, and it comes from the Science Editor of The Times - not a newspaper I normally I read but I found a free copy somewhere (a plane? Ed.) back in April. A bit of light-hearted science is applied to that most esteemed character, the dog owner who is so blinkered by their own inalienable and innate sense of right that they simply cannot  see any other point of view. Ever met anyone like that whilst out birding? No, neither have I.

A German academic, amusingly called Matthias Gross, has conducted a study lasting a decade which concludes that afternoon dog walkers are more likely to pick up their beloved pet's mess than their morning counterparts, who often pretend not to have seen their dog curl one out. You could argue that this particular fact only requires a week to work out, perhaps not even that long, but you have to admire the dedication. The study paper is titled "Natural Waste: canine companions and the lure of inattentively pooping in public", and I am urgently trying to find a copy.

The professor notes all sorts of behaviours that the likes of you and I will immediately recognise. Sudden earnest phone conversations for instance, termed "strategic non-knowledge". Or if a dog-walker does make the effort, the conscious over-the-shoulder look as they do so. He also notes that fabulous phenomenon of the "poo tree". Apparently in the ten years of the study he never once witnessed the ritual of hanging a poo bag on a tree. Thinking about it, neither have I, but a particularly brilliant quote highlights; "they [sic] conduct dirty protests against a society that oppresses their dog's right to defecate at will." He argues that it is an important way of rejecting social expectation by expressing their scorn with parody. I argue that it's being an asshole, but then I'm not a scientist. Where the Professor and I do share a view however is in trying to get to the true answer. But apparently dog owners declined to be interviewed. Who knew that The Times was so sensationalist? Approaches were frequently met with aggression, with friendlier responses being "mind your own business", and "don't you have anything better to do?" After ten years you may well agree with the latter point, but coming from someone who frequently challenges dog owners, all I can say is that if any of them were ever so measured and polite back to me I might easily faint there and then. Commoner responses can be summarised neatly as "Fuck off you prick", or alternatively "I'll do whatever I want, fuck you. (you prick)", but of course my favourites are the incredibly poorly constructed arguments as to why their dog, and by association themselves, ought to be able to do exactly what they want to the detriment of all other human beings and animals. I have enough material to fill a book, so it's disappointing that the study doesn't delve into these irrational outbursts as a psychoanalyst (or birder) could have a marvellous read. Nor does he explore the mythical dog-walker apology, but then again the study only lasted ten years so he can probably be forgiven. My most recent highlight from the field is being bitten on my watch by a passing puppy, the new dog of a grumpy man who lives on my road and who in ten years of walking past me has never exchanged so much as a single word. Well it turns out he's not mute after all, as after pulling the animal away from my wrist via a big smear of saliva and a nice red weal on my hand, was heard to say "come along Poppy*". My wry retort of "You could apologise" was not acknowledged. But I know where he lives, and I may deliver his poo back to him later as never once has he returned home with a bag. You are welcome.

In other social interaction of the heart-warming kind, this week I have been called out as a bird-hater, someone who is all talk no action, and an ass. Well, one of three isn't so bad I guess, but this particular story is so wonderful that it merits some kind of record for posterity, and if you read the news possibly Twitter, which is where this thoughtful exchange took place, may not be around for long. In summary it contains the worst of anthropomorphic drivel, high levels of stupidy, total non-acceptance of conventional wisdom, and a rapid spiral into abuse. I take it back actually, Twitter's commercial future is as rosy as it comes. 

Anyhow, one of my followers  - for the sake of anonymity let's call them halfwit - found two nearly-fledged birds close to a nest. Oh @Wansteadbirder, what should I do? Well let's see, I reckon you should pick them up, give them names, hand-rear them for a while, and then wait for the canonisation that will surely follow. I didn't say that of course, as I am not the facetious type. Instead I suggested that the birds be left alone, and shared an RSPB link to a long-standing FAQ about what to do in this situation, which in summary says "leave them alone" (just on the off-chance that anyone really really stupid out there hasn't grasped that fact yet). I also mentioned that unfortunately this does happen, and nature isn't necessarily all cuddles and happiness. This touched a nerve with halfwit, who went on the offensive immediately with a number of absurd statements, including various pathetic hashtags, accusing me of hating birds, calling me various expletives, and culminating in the insightful "If you get hurt in an accident I hope nobody calls an ambulance just like wot the poor birds won't", or something even less grammatically excellent. Obviously I did not respond in kind, but agreed that in posting the RSPB advice I did indeed hate birds, and that I was chuffed to bits that we had got to the ambulance bit so quickly. This irony fell on deaf ears, and the tirade unfortunately continued for some while, even involving a few genuine bird-lovers that I know, to whom my thanks. Oh sorry, my mistake, they all hate birds too. Nothing of course beats the ambulance tweet, but I did enjoy halfwit's courteous gratitude towards Prof W, who said to leave the birds alone and shared......the same RSPB link. Thank goodness that at least somebody was helpful. I was also advised by halfwit to give up my job, as obviously all people's Twitter account names reflect exactly what it is that they do in real life, oh yes. Two days later and still being called a twat I decided that the "block" feature might be usefully employed, so sadly any further gems won't be seen, or at least not by me. However I would ask that correspondents and readers keep me fully informed about anything that could surpass the crass idiocy of the ambulance tweet, as that would be special and a real shame to miss out on.

In other news I had a back massage. It hurt a lot and was indescribably awful in all respects. It came included with an airline ticket, but I remain utterly mystified as to why anyone would pay good money to simply be abused. Twitter, on the other hand, is free.

*name changed to protect the innocent guilty. Gosh I am being good today.

Devaluing Shetland

I may not go to Shetland again, there is no need - all the birds are turning up down south. After twitching a fabulous Hornemann's Arctic Redpoll last weekend in Suffolk, which shared all the same merits as the birds on Shetland but without the 2,500mph winds, today I found myself over in west London for a Buff-bellied Pipit - another species which up until now I had only seen in the far north. It showed down to about three feet, and took about fifty minutes to get to. Shetland, start to finish, takes about seven hours to get to, and that's by flying. I've also been on the boat; that takes an entire day and night.

I've been to Shetland three times. Each time the cost, once everything is factored in, approaches £700 - taxi, flights, accomodation, car hire, petrol, inter-island ferries, food and a small amount of beer, not to mention the astronomical cost in Brownie Points....... Perhaps I've been unlucky, but the number of ticks on Shetland over those three visits is only eight. Prior to getting back home this October, that was a Bagnall-esque £262.50 per bird. Almost as soon as I touched down at Gatwick, so too did several Siberian Stonechats. £300 a bird then. Last weekend the cost went up to £350, less a small amount of petrol, and this morning, £420, following a quick jaunt around the M25.

Bearing in mind that I went to Tobago (where it was 30 degrees every day, with Trogons) for the same cost as one of those trips to Shetland, those wet and windy weeks in October are looking less and less appealing. And it's not as if I've seen any particularly monster birds up there, a few specialties like Lanceolated Warbler, but nothing silly like a Sibe Rubythroat. In fact at £420 a bird, and rising, I could actually twitch Shetland for the really good stuff and still be ahead. And warm in the Caribbean. Still, there is always the craic and the non-stop alcoholism.

The bird today, just like the Redpoll last week, was fantastic, if a little frustrating as it refused to go near any sunshine for all but the briefest flashes. It steadfastly remained right on the bank below the sides of the reservoir, shielded from the sun by a low wall, and making pleasing angles all but impossible - this however is where the reach of the 800mm comes in very handy, you can negate quite a lot of the "looking down" effect that shorter lens cannot avoid if they want to get a decent-sized bird in the frame. There were also about three million twitchers there, and an astonishing number of tooled-up photographers. Every man and his dog seemingly has a 500mm prime these days. That's one of the positives for Shetland - very often it's just you and a handful of others, or at least it was on my first trip in 2010. This time around and I didn't dare try and get near the Buff-bellied Pipit at Rerwick as the beach had about 80 twitchers on it! Perhaps it's time to start going somewhere isolated and twitcher-free like North Ron? Or Scilly - apparently there were only two birders there this autumn, and both so decrepit that I could easily have outrun them....

Or, more likely, abroad. You see some fabulous birds up close, and mostly you're alone and left alone. "Oi mate, whatya lookin' at?!" The bird that just flew away.

Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full

It feels rare. It smells rare. It IS rare. Anything could happen. Gannets inland, a Sabine's on the Thames, the east coast awash with Cory's and Leach's. Locally Stu had a Barwit over Leyton. Could I get out? No. A kid's party and a family lunch - the enemies of birders everywhere. All kids birthday parties should be banned in September and October, it's just not on. And social events where people invite themselves to my house should also be banned. I mean fercrissakes, it's mega out there! And if it's mega out there I don't want to be in here!

As it happens I dodged one today, with Suffolk underperforming given the weather, and what promised to be a river watch of epic proportions at Rainham turning out to be just a river showing well but little else. But that's not point. To anybody I know, I don't want to see any of you at the weekends until at least November. It's a myth that birders are antisocial awkward misfits.

I live to bird. Kind of. At the very least it's massively important to me. I had an epiphany the other day, and worked out what I wanted out of the next 40 years, should I be so lucky. It boiled down to just three things. One, I want my family to be happy and to have a great time. Two, I want to see lots of birds, everywhere. And three, I want to take photos of them. Good ones. There is of course an obvious problem, which is that when you add two and three together the answer is not very often one. Simple maths really. And so it was that I managed just an hour birding today on a very murky Wanstead Flats, before being recalled to Chateau L to grit my teeth and smile, followed by having my eardrums forcibly extracted at "Tumble in the Jungle", a dungeon of soft-play hell in Walthamstow. During that hour I saw two Stonechats and a Wheatear. Seeing as how many readers are probably sick and tired of Wheatears now, here is one of the Stonechats. You had better hope they don't stay.