Jungletoast

This is going to be a very boring post, I strongly advise that you click away now to something else. Anything else. Even the Liberal Democrats homepage. It’s about plants. Bye now! Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I mentioned on here that I had had a disaster in my conservatory. Boring and middle class, yay! Like many that particular blog post sank without trace, but I had briefly mentioned that I had been almost reduced to tears (and my youngest daughter actually was!) when on returning from holiday we discovered that the conservatory had had no ventilation during an extremely warm spell, and had probably heated up to something like 50C for around five days. When we got home in the evening it was still 43C in there, a dry arid heat. The kind of conditions in which dogs die in cars, and it had dreadful consequences for the plants. Our conservatory is a haven. It has – well had, let’s get the tense tragically right here – a bougainvillea vine growing into the ceiling up a trellis, foliage plants giving bold splashes of green, hanging baskets with hoya, ruellia and tradescantia, cacti and agave dotted around, and my pride and joy, cycads from Australia, South Africa, Mexico, and India. We eat (ate…) surrounded by heady amounts of oxygen and prickles, leaves arching over our heads. If it’s warm enough we open vents, windows and doors, and are soothed by the gentle rustling of leaves. We do get stabbed from time to time, but generally we (well, I) feel that the benefits outweigh the occasional sharp pain.

I’ve been growing plants for a long time, one of several interests I have. Like all my hobbies, commitment ebbs and flows, it's a time thing, and so during times of ebb the plants do tend to suffer from neglect, but this is nothing compared to what just happened to them. This spring I had finally dragged myself out of the gardening doldrums and got everything sorted out. Things were going, and growing, gloriously. Plants that had not grown new leaves for a number of years were flushing, the bougainvillea was flowering. The place was looking more lush than ever before, the results of the increasing love and attention the plants were getting. Good husbandry in other words. I still had issues with mealy bugs, a common sap-sucking houseplant pest that even Kew Gardens has legions of, but overall I felt I was winning the battle.

Then we came back to total devastation, a wall of heat. All the soft leaved plants - the vines, the trailing plants, the foliage plants - had been decimated. Barely a living leaf, brown and shrivelled, white and skeletal. The cacti and agaves, desert plants that you would think would have easily tolerated the conditions, had had the moisture sucked out of them and become shadows of their former selves. But worst of all was the damage inflicted on the cycads. Glorious leaves that had once been silver, blue or green were a deep reddish brown. New flushes of leaves had been cruelly stopped in their tracks and withered away – to put this in context the plants frequently grow only one set of leaves per year, and sometime not that many! On the species that grow continually but one leaf at a time from a central whorl I had literally lost a decade of growth. What had looked like a lush green firework now looked like a dead stump. To say I was stunned was an understatement. I sat on the sofa numb, disbelieving of what had happened. Away for just a few days I’d undone months and in some cases years of care and attention.

The family gathered round, unpacking forgotten. There was no saving some plants as once desiccated leaves do not recover. The green garden waste bags came into the conservatory and I sadly pulled down metres of dead vines from the struts and supports, and was almost inconsolable as I chopped off the dead cycad leaves. Everything got a mild watering to try and reintroduce some moisture into the soil, but not too much as dried roots will rot in waterlogged conditions. When we were finished clearing up it looked post-apocalyptic, Armageddon. Our once green space was practically bare. There were some exceptions, a cycad from Mexico had sustained almost no damage whatsoever where neighbouring plants had been cut to the ground. Of two from South Africa, both the same species one had lost 100% of its leaves whereas the other had just the mildest of brown tips. Nonetheless these were the smallest of miracles in what was otherwise outright carnage. Depressing as hell. There are no photos, I couldn't take it.

I have a greenhouse too, and the plants in there were not affected, including some that by good fortune I had moved down there to repot but not brought back, and so I was able to add some instant greenery in places but the vines and foliage plants had no subs ready to go. To get back to something not resembling a nuclear holocaust I’ve made a few select ebay purchases. A new rubber plant has been collected from Surrey, far larger than its unfortunate predecessor, and looks fantastic in one corner, like it has been there for years. It has reached the stage where it’s more like a small bush, rather than the single stems you find in garden centres, and is growing from multiple different points. I swear that it has grown by 10% in all directions since I brought it home, clearly it likes the new conditions. Agaves were easily replaced from an enthusiast in Essex and again look like they have been there forever, and where there was once a huge hoya I have now strung up a passiflora that is already four feet tall and spreading its tendrils all over the place. In time it could look amazing, especially if it flowers. Overall it is looking a lot better than a few weeks ago. The cycads are not so easily replaced though, and amongst the new green additions look like a succession of Del Monte cast-offs, pineapple husks in weathered pots. Nonetheless I was hopeful that their unique biology would have allowed them to survive.

Cycads are funny old plants. They’re remnants, living fossils, descended from the oldest of plants and familiar to dinosaurs, like Ferns and Araucarias (like the Monkey Puzzle). For some reason plants from these families have always called to me, I should have been an Edwardian. They have small furry or smooth trunks, caudexes, formed from the bases of old leaves, and they grow incredibly slowly. Smaller plants in particular, which most of mine are as I’ve grown them from seed, tend to have significantly more more below ground than above, huge underground root systems far larger than the caudexes themselves, and this means that they can store a tremendous amount of energy in the form of starch. I was hopeful that this energy would be released after the heat stress, just as wildfires in habitat can trigger a mass flushing of new leaves.

Tim Farron never looked so good did he?

I was not wrong. A mere three weeks after the furnace they are springing to life, even the smallest and daintiest plants. In the days immediately after coming home I gradually introduced a bit more moisture, and then the following weekend I gave them a decent amount of a high nitrogen fertiliser. Slowly but surely the tops of the caudexes are expanding. Green tufts are beginning to show. On one Indian cycad they’re a foot long already. I will remain eternally grateful for the extra warmth that September has blessed us with, as ironically enough these plants need heat in order to grow. Had we hit an early autumn it could be that many of these plants may have just gone dormant, as it is I’d say that around half of them are actively growing, and it’s likely the other half will follow suit, although the sooner the better as the leaves become stretched in low light conditions (the professional term is etiolated). It may not look dark to you or I but these plants are from the tropics.

I suspect that in another four weeks things will look vastly better, and that a year from now we will barely remember what happened with the exception of one of two plants that will unfortunately look forlorn for much longer. There is a silver lining however, and that is that a week of oven-like conditions has proved pivotal in the fight against the bugs. Mealy bugs are soft and moist, with a waxy coating, and the unrelenting and extreme heat seems to have killed the vast majority of them off. A few lived on the leaves, and so departed when I cut them off. Many more however lived unseen in the cracks, crevisses and fur. When soft new leaves start to come out they’re like a magnet for these pests and in some cases, if I’m not sufficiently on the ball, can prevent a new leaf from growing before it has even got started. They breed like the clappers and severe infestations can completely engulf leaves, making them look like they’re covered in snow. Like aphids they secrete sticky goo, and this in turn grows mould on it and it all becomes disgusting. They’re easy enough to clean off leaves, but hiding in the cracks they escape detection and also insectides (though mostly I use a hose or the shower to blast them off). This time around however and the new leaves are untouched. Where previously I could have been guaranteed to spot small white bugs crawling up stems, now there are practically none. I can only surmise that where a decade of various treatments has failed, the unintended super-heating of the conservatory has fried them all. Who knew? Certainly not me, and whilst I would obviously have preferred that none of this had ever happened, if all the plants are back to normal in a year or two but I have no bugs to contend with, it may just have been worth it. Just. 

Did you make it this far? If so I'm amazed!

Death and Despair. No Biscuits.

Where I work there are televisions that are always on. One is always in my line of sight if I am looking at my computer screens. If I turn around to get away from it, another appears instead. In the 360 degrees from my desk, I can see seven televisions, and every single one of them, despite no sound, is feeding me a diet of bad news. Constant bad news. Constant unpleasant bad news. Unless I’m in a meeting somewhere, my day is completely dominated by whatever atrocity or disaster is currently befalling the world. It does not do much for my well-being is the conclusion I am reaching. I don’t know about you, but as I age I seem to slowly but surely become more sensitive to sad and bad things happening. I never used to be like this, and really you would expect that the constant in-your-face aspect of today’s news services, often beaming you tragedy live and as it happens would harden you to it. Toughen you up. Yet it is the opposite, and there are some stories that I end up with a lump in my throat. They can be global news stories where you see a child’s body under a sheet, or they can be reading Michael Clarke’s address from Philip Hughes’ funeral. Perhaps it is to do with having children, perhaps it is to do with my own mortality, as so famously penned in song by Pink Floyd. Shorter of breath, one day closer to death.

I’m trying to work, but I’m surrounded by death. Seemingly news is not news unless somebody has died. Preferably lots of people. Yesterday I was pumped ten hours of the siege at that café in Sydney. As terrified people ran out of the building, so I saw them run. Then I saw the repeats of them running. Again and again. I saw the SWAT team going in and the flashes of gunfine. Again and again. And I saw the wounded being carried out. Today I’m being fed live updates from Peshawar, where religiously-motivated gunmen have just killed 130 children in some kind of revenge attack, part of an ever-increasing spiral of violence. Children, shot in their classrooms in cold blood. To say it is harrowing is to belittle it, I am speechless. I spent the summer watching Ebola unfold, with light relief provided by the periodic beheading of western hostages in Syria and Iraq. I saw the candle-lit vigils, and then the stills from the videos and the men in black with balaclavas on. I get aerial footage of M25 crash scenes, I get capsized ferries and cruise liners, I get downed airliners. Rape, murder and child abuse are all quotidian.

Occasionally, very occasionally, the BBC feel sorry for the viewer and stick on a feel good story. Or indeed comedy, for instance when UKIP take part in a by-election, or when FIFA release a report into their own activities. This is very rare, but the other day there was a piece, repeated pleasingly often, about baby seals, replete with extensive footage of baby seals looking adorable. This was heart-warming, and I watched it as often as I could, transfixed by the deep black eyes of the pups. But of course it was a story about orphaned seal pups being hand-reared back to health, so the sub-text was still DEATH. And as I type the BBC is now telling me that one of the last Northern White Rhinos has died in captivity. Ideally they’ll follow this up with a story about poaching, and show a few dead and mutilated animals bleeding in some dry acacia-dotted scrubland. Breaking News they call it. I’m sick of it.

I know what you’re thinking. Get up and turn the TV off. I would, believe me I would, but they’re suspended from the ceiling and I can’t reach the buttons.

September on the Patch....

....is so far very similar to August. In fact it involves most of the same birds, including all of yesterday's Whinchats and possibly an extra one for good measure. A couple of Redstart still knocking around as well, but quality was provided by a Green Sandpiper heading west across the Flats. I was chasing the aforementioned Whinchats around the Broom Fields, and had got within the requisite 40m before they all took flight again, when I heard a wader call, high and piercing. Looking around desperately yielded nothing, but it called again twice whilst remaining invisible. I was texting out the news of wader goodness when a text from Nick came through. I had thought he was at Long Wood, but in fact he was somewhere over towards the Alex, and had had a Green Sand over calling. He hadn't seen it either, but no matter, mystery solved, and checking my phone confirmed that the high call notes were indeed the species I had been wondering about. Happy days.



This was as close as I came, which with 1120mm of focal length tells you all you need to know.

This proved the only high note of the morning, the Whinchats were completely impossible, and a brief glimpse of a Redstart diving between cover had me scuttling home - there is only so long I want to schlep a big lens around for without actually doing anything with it. So instead I have devoted the rest of the day to sorting out my greenhouse, which before birding took over my life was a mainstay of my OCD. The scene inside was of major devastation. Even though the plants I like are mostly from arid zones, there is only so much that even they can take, and I have unfortunately managed to kill loads of them. Mainly these were seedling plants, the ones that really needed tender loving care, whereas the larger plants have more in reserve and can last longer. I am a fool. So, a massive cleaning exercise, lots of disposing of dead plants, lots of tipping soil away, and a back-breaking trip to the dump to dispose of the lot. But it looks great now! Whilst I was having my sort out, I also swept and scrubbed the floor, and scrubbed the walls (yes, my greenhouse has walls....) and the dirty bits of the frame. I've got rid of all the mould, sprayed away many of the bugs, and basically done what I ought to have done about five months ago. It almost looks pristine, and I've resolved to enjoy it again.

This Green Woodpecker landed vaguely near Bob and I whilst we were discussing which waders we hadn't seen on the patch.

The feeling of satisfaction, although tinged with sadness at the loss of rare plants, is hard to beat. It has been on successive to-do lists for absolutely ages and ages. Why I decided to start it in September, when the whole of June had been available I have no idea, call it stupidity, but it is done. I actually started last night, and in total the job has taken somewhere between seven and eight hours of non-stop work. Mostly lows when confronted with yet another death, but a huge high when with no small amount of pleasure I also discovered two bottles of Scotch down there, a reminder of a time when I wasn't just processing photos and blogging all the time. Back then I thought nothing of actually sitting down and doing very little in my special greenhouse chair, sometimes even falling asleep in the muggy warmth whilst the fans whirred and the foliage rustled. I always kept a wee something down there for precisely those times, and although covered in cobwebs and muck, liquid remained within. The label on one had been completely eaten away by snails, but I recall that if was The Glenlivet. The other is obviously a Glenfiddich, though in a brown bottle rather than green, whatever that means, as the snails and slugs have had the crucial information. Naturally I checked that both were fine, a quick swig from each one, and am pleased to confirm that several years of neglect, sub-zero temperatures and then high thirties, seem to have had no impact on their sipping qualities, so I may take a glass down there. I've just fumigated it, done a final sweep up, a final bit of house-keeping, and all is good. Time to start buying plants again I guess.....

4,054,458,047

That’s me that is. On this glorious planet on which we blog, tweet and snipe on Birdforum, I am the 4 billionth, 54 millionth, four-hundred and fifty-eight thousandth and forty-seventh person to have been born. Whoa. How s about that for mind-boggling thought eh? Hope you were sitting down. How do I know this? It was on the BBC website, so it must be true. You can play too:

What's Your Number

The reason that this little gem of a stat exists is that the population of planet earth recently passed the seven billion mark. That is a serious number of people, imagine the queue at the post office, it would go on for ever and ever. I mean when I get up in the morning and catch the tube, I think that’s a lot of people, but seven billion! They wouldn’t even fit in an extra-long train!  Seven billion is like, loads. The other interesting stat is that, in the history of the universe and space, there have been 78,404,690,760 sentient human beings. And then add some birders. With seven billion alive (if not all well, necessarily) that means a lot of dead people. 71 billion to be imprecise. Where did they all go? Jeez. I’m alive though, one of the seven billion, and able to blog, tweet, and post inanities on Birdforum. Talking of which, I’m actually having a little love-in with Lee Evans on there at the moment, or rather he is, as for some reason he believes me to be on his side. I’m not on his side, nor am I on the opposing Lee-bashing side, but it didn’t prevent him declaring his adoring and eternal gratitude for something he perceived me to have done. Had there been a “hugs” emoticon thing, I would have used it in reply. Except emoticons are a load of crap, and I refuse to use them; they are a poor substitute for intelligent writing, and only exist so that stupid people can grasp simple sentences and get a vague understanding of their likely meaning. I didn’t reply, I couldn’t think of anything both cutting, witty, and genuinely inoffensive.

This bird is largely responsible for global warning. I hope it goes south via Malta.

Er, where was I? Oh yes, over-population. Not quite as important as which UK twitchers have seen the most birds and which grown men hate which other grown men, but worthy of mention nonetheless.  I read somewhere that by 2050 – this could be wrong, I refuse to actually conduct research - we will need two earths to feed the population, which by that time will be ten billion people. The trouble is we don’t have two earths, we only have one. Better hope somebody thinks of something, and fast. The good news is that by 2050 I’ll be on the way out, so won’t have to worry too much about, except perhaps over where to get buried alongside 71 billion other people, but it will be a genuine problem for my kids and my kid’s kids. I mean, what if they have to knock down Waitrose and grow turmips there instead? Where will they buy their imported green beans in December, or their Malaysian jumbo king tiger prawns? Like I said, genuine problems. Forget about where they might live, that’s blindingly obvious. They’re all going to be living with me and Mrs L until their early forties, possibly beyond. We will make weekly attempts to throw them out of course, but ultimately with starter houses by then costing a million quid, and starter salaries remaining exactly as they are today, and perhaps even less, what choice are they really going to have? I'm already resigned to it, but I suppose it will be nice to be looked after in my old age.

Seriously worrying statistics though, the cost of the weekly shop is only going in one direction. That said, it is a very clear case of SEP (someone else's problem), and I don't expect anyone reading the BBC website to do a damn thing except moan about the increasing cost of bread. In case you were wondering my preferred loaf has risen from £1.65 to £2.09. Yet another interesting stat. I am sure I can find more. Sorry this hasn't been about birds. I was going to go on the patch at the weekend and get the blog back on track, but instead I'm going to be planting spuds in the front garden and stocking up on canned food.

Where is my Wheatear?

Late, that's what. Another fruitless hour on the Flats this morning, enlivened by the sight of Cocker Spaniel puppy chasing Skylarks through the rough grass. Excellent. I took the owner to task - I have a prepared speech these days. Hopefully he got the point, and as a bonus, I didn't get stabbed. More signs are needed, as he genuinely didn't have any idea.

Another dead bird at Alexandra Lake, some three days after the last one, is fairly worrying. A Coot this time, died with its eyes open. I find it difficult to become emotional over a Coot I have to admit, but it did make me spend a lot more time looking at them today that I would normally. They are so demure, socially tolerant and easy-going. Softly softly, friendly, passive and calm.

Suitably soothed after watching the Coots go about their business, I turned my attention to the other denizens of the Heronry Pond. A Mute Swan looked very pretty, and then to get my attention started doing it's best Coot impression. A Canada Goose played the part of the other Coot.

I sat in the sunshine with Pudding for about two hours, simply watching the few birds in front of me being affectionate. We were warm, and happy. And from behind the Tea Hut of Happiness, a Chiffchaff sang, my first of the year. Spring has started. Somebody tell the Wheatears!

"Could you drop a line my way?"

Wanstead still in the Headlines

Wanstead is still grabbing the news for all the wrong reasons. My patch has become a crime scene, and is also described as an East London Beauty Spot. Hmmmm. And I am a birdspotter, who likes to look at birds in trees, but doesn't like to watch them fall out. I suppose this is true, but birdspotter sound rather naff. Mind you, I should be thankful I've not yet been labelled as a twitcher. That would be quite wrong.

No more birds have died since Saturday. That unfortunate Pigeon on the ITN broadcast was the last one. I spoke to Keith from the Epping Forest dept again today, and it actually died there and then. I had only pointed it out some fifteen minutes previously as one that didn't look too good, so to have it die that quickly, well, that says poison to me, and a pretty potent one at that. The corpses are all still being analysed, so we still don't know. But at least it has stopped.

The pond remains taped off, and will stay that way until the results are known and the area is deemed safe again. Personally, I'd be happy if the car park never re-opened. Actually I'd probably go a step further and ban everybody from the Flats. Forever. Apart from me and the other local birders. Then I could go birding in peace. I wouldn't miss the insomniac dog-walkers walking straight through the Skylark nesting habitat. I wouldn't miss the Model Aircraft flying low across the acid grassland. I wouldn't miss all the empty drinks bottles that the footballers leave everywhere every weekend, and I wouldn't miss the shenanigans in Long Wood. I'd also happily never have someone stop me and tell me about a funny bird they saw again, or ask if I'd seen any of those green Parrots. When the BBC man asked me today what I was hoping would happen now, I had to grit my teeth and say I was looking forward to it all being open again. I'm afraid that when I'm out birding, I'm actually rather antisocial. Not that you'd know it. I nod and smile, and I am friendly. But deep down I am wishing you would go away and leave me alone. I might just be joking though. But how would you tell?


Actually I think I would like it all to go back to normal. It would be better if Wanstead were not in the news. I suppose it's been interesting to find out how the media works behind the scenes, quite how many people (loads) are involved in getting a story into the news, and stuff like that, but the most exciting time of year is upon us, and that's what I need to concentrate on. Before the press turned up again, that is exactly what I was doing. However, apart from a fresh Comma, nothing doing.

One of those Days

I've just had one of those days where everything goes wrong - on the bird front at least. First off was that I elected to go round Wanstead Flats this morning instead of Rainham. Wanstead Flats netted me nothing of significance beyond another dead Crow, whilst Rainham hosted a Great White Egret. When H kindly phoned with the news, I hurried home, but the Egret departed high east roughly when I got to my front door, so I had some breaskfast instead.


I did eventually get to Rainham, but bar another (or the same) Glaucous Gull, it was fairly quiet. Or so I thought. I left mid-afternoon, and was nearing Barking when Howard called again. Penduline Tit in the reed mace near the Bus Stop, and a Little Ringed Plover from the MDZ. Piss, as they say. Paul and I had been outside the Centre having a bit of chat whilst some visitors were happily watching the Penduline about 150 metres away. Even I could have got there in under a minute. By the time it was reported, we, and it, were gone. Looking at the stationary traffic on the North Circular, I turned around and headed back to Rainham, only to get stuck in a different jam on the A13 going back the way I had just come. The Penduline Tit never returned, and the Little Ringed Plover couldn't be found, so in that sense the 45 minute traffic delay was irrelevant, but it did little to improve my mood. In fact I'd say the opposite was true....


Anyway, that was my day. Before I went to Rainham, I met up with the ITN people, and did what will no doubt be a highly entertaining and thought-provoking piece to camera about exactly how I came across the birds in a bucket. Prepare to be underwhelmed. On the plus side, I got to talk to Keith of the Epping Forest staff, so now I have some better bird numbers - better as in more accurate, and also lower, at only 79. I say only, but that is still an awful lot. The majority are Crows, and it is only one Greylag, not two. Whilst I was there I spotted another dead bird in the water, a Moorhen this time, and then commented to the others present that one of the Pigeons didn't look at all well. This proved to be correct, and within a few minutes it was flapping its last on the bank, whilst a group of male Pigeons thoughtfully mated with it as it lay there helpless. The film crew were there to capture it's final moments, and showed Keith with green gloves on picking it up. Actually seeing a Pigeon croaking is probably very pleasing to many Londoners, so they were clearly going for the popular vote. Top TV!

#77 The Larch Crow

#78, Moorhen

Worse than I feared

The whole of Alexandra Lake has been cordoned off. I had wondered if this was an over-reaction, but having just bumped into one of the Epping Forest Keepers, the news is dire. It is a deliberate case of bird-poisoning, and the eight Crows I found were just the start. They have been falling out of the trees almost constantly since Tuesday. I don't have the exact figures yet, but so far the deaths include over 100 Crows, many Canada Geese, Coots, and particularly Moorhens, 2 Greylags, and some Pigeons. In all hundreds of birds have died, and indeed when I looked at the area from the car today, it seemed very empty. The Keeper I spoke to has been picking up Crows and putting them together whilst they die, the whole thing sounds horrible. And it does not stop there - a lady has lost her Alsatian as well. Whilst dog-walkers and their dogs are the bane of my [birding] life, I would not wish any of them harm. I can't believe that this has happened on my patch - it's disgusting that there are people out there who would do this. The Police Wildlife Unit and the Environment Agency are both investigating, but how you find whoever has done this without actually catching them in the act I have no idea.

So there is now something newsworthy in Wanstead, though whether the general populace will find it more interesting than Susan Boyle's cat's residential status is unknown at this stage.

How dare somebody poison my birds! The more I sit here typing about it, the more angry I am becoming. On the plus side, no Gulls have been affected. Nor any Wildfowl, though many of the wintering birds have gone. There are a pair of Little Grebe on there, as well as several Mute Swan and a load of Mallard, but they seem to have escaped unharmed at present.

Sorry this post is unhumourous, and contains no Gull faux pas. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

"I might be dead now"

Whodunnit?

A proper murder mystery on Wanstead Flats this morning. I was towards the end of my circuit and had just finished counting the wildfowl on Alexandra Lake when this bizarre sight greeted me.

I hope you're not eating your breakfast, but yes, it's four dead Crows in a bucket. Inserted head-first into a catering mayonnaise tub in fact, and then placed on a bin. Not a frequent occurence around here. I called the rangers to report this, and whilst on the phone, noticed another dead bird behind me. It had no obvious external injuries, but five crows do not suddenly just fall out of a tree. Something is not right.


As I was poking this one with a stick, I noticed two others out on the playing fields, and then another. Eight dead Crows? What on earth had happened? I'm afraid I don't know, but it's likely to be poison. The birds didn't appear to have been shot, which was my initial fear, and, other than being dead, looked in perfect health. Alexandra Lake does suffer from a Rat problem, which itself stems from well-meaning but ultimately rather stupid people who put out grotesque quantities of food for the birds. More food than they can possibly eat, and as a result we have a large Rat population. Traps are not laid, but perhaps a local resident has put something down? The Corporation of London people arrived soon after and bagged all eight birds for analysis, so perhaps we'll find out.

On the way back home pondering all this I spied what I feared was a ninth bird. Luckily my ID skills had let me down once again....