Christmas cheer

Ho Ho Ho! It’s December, and Christmas is in full swing! Christmas was actually in full swing from about the end of October, with shops and supermarkets moving seamlessly from Halloween. Decorations appeared in Canary Wharf on about the 9^th of November, and it has basically been downhill ever since. Now I’m not a modern day Scrooge, but neither am I a particular fan of Christmas, and certainly not a Christmas that lasts for two months. A week, I think, is fair enough. Long enough to get into the swing of it, short enough that the end is always in sight, which is always important where large family gatherings are concerned. If it were up to me, Christmas would start on the 23^rd, and all evidence of it would have gone by the New Year, and I think I’m being pretty generous there. An argument could easily be made for a day either side of the actual day and have done with it.

However I’m not in charge, and so it is seemingly endless. Christmas Carols have started in Chateau L already, sung at high pitch by small girls, and frequently before 8am. Needless to say this is insufferable, but there appears nothing I can do to avoid it. Entreaties to stop are met with whispered conversations with Mrs L, giggles, and even more happy singing. And herein lies the problem: Mrs L is a big fan of Christmas. Not in the sense of smothering the house in lights, an inflatable Reindeer on the roof and sticking a “Santa please stop here!” sign in the front garden, but of just generally being deliriously happy that it is on the way, stocking up on wrapping paper, cooking stuff, encouraging offspring, and playing Christmas music late November. This is typically restricted to her car in the early stages, but by mid December it has made its way indoors and permeates everywhere.

I cannot even escape it at work. Whilst there are no Carols, various employees seem to delight in competing with each other to see which area can decorate their desks in the most outrageously lurid manner. Obviously I do not get involved, but as we sit in little cubicle-like things we share adjoining walls, and mine are now covered in green and gold tinsel. It would seem churlish to push  it back over the edge, so I tolerate it. But there are some elements of office Christmas that are simply intolerable.

Secret Santa.

Of all the irritations that Christmas brings, office Secret Santa is amongst the very worst. An email recently came round offering this delight, complete with voting buttons. Naturally I voted no. My team however are very aware of my dislike of this time of year, and knowing how I would vote somehow knobbled the system and had my name put down anyway. Thinking I was safe I was aghast to receive a name out of a metaphorical hat (the internet does all of this now, hats not required) along with instructions on how to wrap it anonymously etc etc. Maximum gift value ten pounds. TEN POUNDS!!??

Naturally I barely knew the person I had to buy a present for at all. This always happens. Every year I refuse to take part. Every year I am given a name anyway. And every year it's for the person I am least likely to have the faintest clue of what interests them. So starts the angst-ridden countdown to the Secret Santa diary entry where we all gather round a garishly decorated desk to distribute the gifts. I have no idea how much time I wasted wondering what on earth I was going to do, but somehow I managed it. I should have put a tenner in an envelope as soon as the email came round and had done with it. Anyway, I sourced some piece of junk, duly wrapped it up, and then forgot about it until yesterday at 4pm. And then it got a whole lot worse. Just before the grand event happened I bent down to tie my shoe lace, and seizing this opportunity somebody put a Santa hat on my head.....

So now what? In this era of smartphones video and photographic evidence would be obtained and circulated widely to colleagues in other offices. Company printers would likely be abused and colour A3s of me being Santa would appear. On the other hand to throw the hat on the ground and swear copiously in front of twenty-five people would not be very graceful. Or managerial. So to raise team spirits and promote togetherness I was Father Christmas for five minutes. Ho ho bloody ho. Anyway, hopefully it was worth it and people now feel like Christmas has started. Also note that comments about my perfect physique for this role did not go unnoticed, and when annual reviews take place later this month a number of people should expect very poor appraisals indeed!

Modern Communication

This is somewhat old news now, but we sent my eldest - known as Muffin on this blog if you can remember that far back - to boarding school this September. I had never considered that this might happen, and though it will probably surprise many readers of this blog I didn't actually go to boarding school myself. Indeed I was fairly anti about many of the aspects of a private education and what was spat out at the end. This is a little different however, as it is a state boarding school, and thus populated by a relatively wide cross-section of the population (which is one of the major issues I had with private education). Faced with a number of lack-lustre options in the big smoke, we think this is the right decision. He has big skies and lots of space, and this could end up influencing his entire life for the better.

Day-to-day our once family of five is now a family of four, with an empty space at the table. I have to say it is a lot quieter as eleven year old boys are not noted for being discreet and restrained, but of course I am now hopelessly outnumbered by X chromosomes. This manifests itself in various ways, none positive. For instance Christmas Carols became de rigueur in early November.....

Obviously it's a little strange not having him here, but I am heartened knowing that he is having a fabulous time at school. Not that we as parents would ever discover this for ourselves though.... Many years ago my father went to boarding school and back then, in the days before electronics existed (or steam power!), you communicated with your parents via letter. For dedicated birders who may have difficulty understanding the concept of families and children, think of twitching before birdline or pagers, and when news of rarities was received by postcard two weeks later. 

Consequently parents never heard from their children until they picked them up at the end of term. But today in the twenty-first century it is all different. Mobile phones, text messages, emails, wi-fi, you are assured of up-to-the-minute updates of all aspects of your offspring's life. We duly equipped Muffin with a basic mobile phone and off he went. As expected this got laughed out of the dormitory and so after half term he was sent back with one of our old smartphones (with the data disabled!). Chateau L is bordering on the luddite so this was still utterly lacking in street cred, however as borderline acceptable we looked forward to daily missives of school life, achievements and disasters. News in other words. 

Ah..... So far, and in response to lengthy messages designed to reassure that daily family life continues, the longest average length of text message I have received has been three characters long, and this is significantly bumped up by typos. "OK" is the default. On a particularly verbose day I've had "Thanks". We are occasionally honoured with phone calls, the average length of which is approximately eight seconds. This is generally just enough time to say hello and then to explain that as it as after 9pm Matron is about to turn the lights out and he will get into trouble unless he hangs up. Once in a blue moon after repeated entreaties to phone us at a time when a call has a possibility of lasting more than a fraction of a second we have a slightly longer conversation. The major theme of these is slightly agitated silence as his mind wanders to whatever else is going on before he remembers he was on the phone and says "err, what, sorry?" or some such. Put simply eleven year old boys are not good at communication, and whether it is 1960 or 2015 makes no difference. We might as well have sent him to school in North Korea.

Although I am slightly put out that he has little desire to waste his precious time on us, in reality this is a very good sign. There is clearly a huge amount going on that he is completely absorbed in and calls every five minutes would indicate things were not going so well. It is a big step for a small kid, and whilst there have been the odd teething problems, overall it's very positive. Or rather, in the absence of any meaningful communication that's what we're guessing and we'll find out at Christmas.

Firecrest and Dr Who in Bush Wood

New fact learned today: Bob is capable of light-speed and quite possibly time travel. Handy trick to have up your sleeve if you're a birder, and frankly explains a lot. I'd just found a Firecrest in Bush Wood and had texted the news when all of a sudden my phone rang and there was Bob, literally the other side of the bush. Was that the zap of a lightning bolt? I'm not entirely certain but it was remarkable.

"Jono, are you the other side of this bush?" 
"Er, I don't know, hang on, I'll shout.....HULLO!!"
"JONO!"
"Yes I am!"
"Are you playing Firecrest as I think I may have just heard one in this bush"
"No I'm not, but you have just heard one and i'm looking at it!" 

*Zap*

"Oh hi Jono, where is it?"
"How did you do that?"
"Oh, er, well, you know...."
"Right, well now you're here it was just round this trunk...."

And there it was, in fact there two were, chasing each other around and generally being amazing. I marked the spot with a secret birdy sign, and together we continued around Bush Wood, Bob on foot this time, hoping for Treecreeper or Woodcock but finding neither. 

Woodcock was the whole reason I was in Bush Wood in the first place, as I still need it for the patch year list. I'd put the word out and two hundred people had come to help me look. I hadn't told them to dress up in stupid clothes but I wasn't going to argue. I blew my whistle and they all charged into Bush Wood and started doing circuits while I stood patiently on the edge waiting for Woodcock to fly out. Sadly not even this extreme tactic worked, and when my army of flushers got bored and ran off, I ventured off-piste to the north-east of the pond just in case. As I fought my way through the brambles and holly and trod on no Woodcocks, it occured to me that this was historically one of the best areas for patch Firecrests, and a few years ago I'd seen up to four birds in here. Every other site in London has got wintering birds at the moment, where are ours? Heaps of various Tits and Goldcrests doing circuits, a few Woodpeckers, and suddenly, low in a Holly, a Firecrest! I could barely believe it, after all this place is regularly surveyed.....;-)  (sorry about that Mr H)..... So I put the news out via text and within about two seconds Bob teleported in.

Remarkably these are the first Firecrest on the patch this year, we all managed to miss them in the early winter season. With a couple of spring records we did wonder a couple years back if they bred on patch but couldn't really find any evidence either way so we assume not. Still, glad they have returned, and this glorious find takes me to 112 for the year, somewhat against the odds but I'm firmly in the groove now. I'll no doubt be pottering around there tomorrow seeing if I can't add to the total. Bob meanwhile will be looking for Common Tern back in June.

Same old, same old

Ok so yesterday or whenever I wrote a whole long post about how my blog was much better when I did nothing and just bummed about at home with my duster, and how it would be good to get back to that as I was much more comfortable, albeit without getting fired again. But did I mention I went to Florida for the weekend?! Not being able to piss off abroad for the weekend was one of the chief disadvantages of not having a job, and yes maybe it doesn't provide great blogging material in the same way that potty training does, but jeez, it's Florida! Warmth, happiness, birds galore, a feeling of comparative slenderness.....what's not to like?

A trip report will follow, but basically it was about flopping about on the beach flat on my not insubstantial stomach and getting as many photographs of birds as I possibly could. As many as possible in two days ended up being 3,120 which is pretty obscene, but in the cold light of day this has been culled down to 600 or so, of which a mere 86 are at this point deemed worthy of publication. If you are very very bored, or wish to avoid consumer hell this coming Friday, you can see them all here. If just one is all you need, then clap your eyes on this! It is a Black Skimmer and is totally ace at beaks.

Where is the joy?

I was reading a few of my earliest ever blog posts recently, from back in 2009. I’ve not looked at them for ages but with the revival of NQS and the recycling of some of those early blog posts, I wondered how I’ve evolved in nearly seven years of clogging up the www. In a nutshell I have become a lot more boring. The photographs have improved, but the content has been on a steady downhill trajectory since around 2011. The joy has gone from it.

In 2009 when I kicked it off I was about to lose my job. I didn’t know this at the time of course, but under two months in and I found my world turned upside down. It was OK as Famille L had a plan which we swiftly put into action. It involved me being IN CHARGE!!!! (or being made to believe I was at least, in reality Mrs L was in charge). Whilst I had heaps to do, and many new things to learn (far-fetched things like how to shop for stuff to eat), I was at a loose end intellectually. Reading back some of what I wrote, I can’t in all honesty say that the blog satisfied this, but it seems a lot merrier. Much sillier, with happiness and humour derived from the minutiae of a new life spent grappling with domesticity. My many failures and few triumphs were shared with the spirit of a pioneer, issues with socks and cleaning products detailed to the nth degree, child-rearing and rarity-twitching combined to, err, interesting effect. You would not think that the life of a newly promoted and under-skilled house husband could possibly have generated so much material, but back them it seemed like anything I looked at was fair game for a few hundred words and what's more I had the time to do it. Craft is the wrong word, but I did take reasonable care with each post. It was pretty formulaic stuff really with the odd curveball thrown in, but somehow it worked, or at least that’s what I continue to tell myself. I enjoyed it immensely, despite the drudgery of most of the subject matter, and I remember giggling like a schoolboy at some of what I put down. It was of course mostly all true, albeit with a bit of exaggerration. I did struggle with really really easy things, I was absolutely hopeless at most of it to start with, but some of what I did to get through it, though not obvious to Mrs L, did actually work and somehow I have three very well grounded and fully-limbed children at the end of it. And the house is still standing.

Things are different now. In 2011 I went back to working in the financial sector. The flip-flopped life I had enjoyed for over two years changed overnight and it was back to suits and office cubicles. My pool of “life material” shrank dramatically, though my bank balance started going up again. For obvious reasons I cannot write about what I do in Canary Wharf, but take it from me that it is unbelievably dull and would not make good blogging material. 

Both my recent careers come with their own challenges, and I would take issue with anyone that said being a stay-at-home parent was a walk in the park, though we did of course go for walks in the park. WHEN ALL THE WORK WAS DONE WHICH WAS NEVER. But only one of the jobs turns me into a grumpy, moaning, unpleasant, stressed and objectionable individual. I’ll give you a clue: It wasn’t the one that came with a pink brush. So the combination of having done nothing worthwhile and being permanently irritable is not ideal for getting the creative juices flowing. Nor, frankly, do I often come home from work feeling in the mood for a bit of light-hearted blogging, so these days if you get anything at all it’s more likely to be a rant or a trip report. Very one dimensional and not very interesting.

It retained a bit of the old spark after 2011, but by the end of that year it’s a shadow of 2010 which is when I felt I really hit my stride. The numbers tell the story quite well, 202 posts in 2011 declined to 123 by 2014, and this year it’s a mere 81. Of these 81, probably a third of them are trip reports – I went abroad and I saw such and such. Zzzzzz. This leaves about 50 posts, and a miserable 50 at that. Where is the joy? How can I get it back? Am I at a crossroads? Can my nearly 41 year-old self rediscover the absurdity and joie-de-vivre that existed as a 35 year old? Why was I better at writing about doing the dishes than I seem to be at detailing birding the west coast of the USA? More to the point, why did I enjoy writing about the dishes more than I do writing about foreign birding? Is the difference purely causal? Or is it that I’m five years older and five years more knackered?

2009-2011 – Domestic drudgery and seeing the same local birds over and over again. Fun!

2012-2015 – Working in a fast-paced environment and travelling the world. Ugh.

I mean it’s perverse isn’t it? I have all these opportunities now and I make the most of them. I constantly burn the candle at both ends and do a huge amount. I enjoy most aspects of my current life a great deal, but I think my writing shows that I enjoyed my time at home more. And I don’t dispute that, those two years were fantastic. No work, lots of time with the kids and master of my own time, brilliant. And I knew then they would never come again and it was an opportunity not to be missed. So what to do? How can I get the spark back? I’ve been thinking long and hard about this as I sit and stare at my computer screen and realise I have absolutely nothing to say. Back in the day this never seemed a constraint, I would think about what I did that day and off I would go. These days the screen remains blank and I go off and have a G&T, and you dear readers get nothing. Or if you do it’s more often than not half-hearted. I’m constantly impressed by those bloggers who do seem to have a steady stream of something meaningful to say. Not drivel like me. 

So I am musing on what to do. How to refresh myself? I’ve only had two “back to basics” ideas so far, and they were pretty obvious. If I were to re-takeup domestic duties as a hobby, would my blog improve?! Ditch photography, start dusting. It’s a thought isn’t it? Sack the cleaner, get back to doing the vacuuming myself. I used to love that vacuum, spilled rice was a joy. Baked-beans less so but if left a while they became easier. It rather lacks the element of competitive listing so important to birding, but I’m sure this could be worked around. But this is where the second idea comes in! Get back to local birding of course! Properly I mean. Every time I get out there I love it. And every time I say that I don't do it! Well, that’s a slight exaggeration, I have a go and then lapse again, as it can be dreadful, and as I’m also sure I’ve said before, I’ve not got the time to work the patch properly. A snatched 30 minutes here and there simply isn’t enough time to do it justice, especially with other birders out there more or less constantly, annoying you with good birds. This is what leads me to the “sod it” decision more often than not. That and being at Heathrow.

Ultimately it all comes down to time and not having enough of it. There is so much going on that free time is rare and I can’t do everything I want to do. A day would need to be 36 hours long at least for me to get to all the things on my list. This is why vacuuming and writing a decent blog post about vacuuming rarely feature, I just don’t get round to it. That post I wrote a couple of weeks ago about memory I had been wanting to do for ages, but I kept forgetting to do it and doing something else. When I finally got to it it was pretty easy to bash out, but I’m convinced that the time between thinking of it and then doing it meant it lost some spontaneity. When I was a Domestic Goddess that was all part of the fun. Mop down, keyboard out, write some rubbish, cook dinner realise no food in the house, go shopping, cook dinner. Which is what I've just done as it happens, cook dinner. It involved unwrapping two pizzas and turning the oven on, not exactly haute cuisine but, as ever, all I had time for. Pizza #2 was enhanced with Chorizo, and was a massive hit with the children, stratospherically better than the Margherita it started off life as. Worthy of a separate blog post? In 2009 I probably would have done it. In 2015 I simply can't be bothered. Be thankful for small mercies.

PS I've sprinkled this post with some "old life" photos. Do any long-time readers remember what it was like?

Nelson (II)

It doesn't happen every year - last year was blank - but every now and again I hit the "Nelson" in terms of patch-listing. As every cricket lover knows, the Nelson is 111, and in the lucky event that an innings spends some time on this score, or a multiple thereof, the commentators always call it out wait eagerly for a wicket to fall. It is rare that nothing happens on 111 or 222, indeed some people are very superstitious of it, and an umpire called David Shepherd used to hop on one leg nervously whilst on the field. 

I am not superstitious of it, and certainly not on the patch where today this landmark was reached. I'd unsuccessfully attempted to find Bob's Caspian Gull on the Flats this morning, finding only Bob instead (not as good), and together we went in search of rare waterfowl in the Park. We found only ice for the most part for it has suddenly got very cold here in London, and yesterday's Goldeneye had departed. However Shoulder of Mutton did have some very curious noises coming from the reeds, which on closer inspection and encouragement became the familiar squealing of a Water Rail, which once it fully kicked off got another one going on the other side of the pond.

Now I was pretty slack in the first winter period on the patch, failing to go birding very much at all. So it was that Lapwing and Redpoll were year ticks the other day, and so it was that Water Rail was another this morning. The 111th in fact, which is quite remarkable. It elicited a friendly text from fellow patch-worker Nick, thus: "How the fuck are you on 111?" It's a fair question really. I have not been the most ardent of patch workers this year, with many other plates being spun, but as I said to Nick it is marathon and not a sprint, and slowly (ve-ry slowly) I have been plugging away in snatched moments. Red Kite fell whilst watching the kids play cricket, Short-eared Owl on a brief walk around before work. I've been there on all the critical days when the good stuff has turned up - a decent morning last month saw me stood beneath flyover Brambling, Woodlark and Lapwing, and Bob's flyover Goldeneye from a couple weeks ago was gripped back yesterday. Whilst I can't say I've put in massive amounts of time except during the spring and autumn, I've done enough to stay in the game. In fact a bit more effort and I could be in contention - Tawny Owl and Woodcock have yet to grace my list, and there is still plenty of time for a cold snap to bring in some goodies. I've obliterated last year's 102, and as it stands 111 is my fourth highest total since moving here over ten years ago and I've high hopes of passing 113 to make it my second best ever behind the 118 from 2013. Wasn't that a stat-filled sentence! Anyhow, here's a Reddish Egret recently spied during a rare moment away from the patch.

Hong Kong. Some Birds.

It is rare I go anywhere without bins. It has been known to happen of course, but for a trip to Asia, even a family holiday - not a chance. I wore them most days though I have no idea why. Maybe it is the mark of a birder, a badge of sorts, and if I'm not wearing them I still reach for them, so it makes sense to wear them just in case. On most days we barely saw a bird other than the ubiquitous Tree Sparrows hopping around and the Black Kites soaring among the skyscrapers and over the harbour. But one morning I did skip off to the New Territories, much like I did last year, and then they came into their own and justified the thousands of miles they had travelled, if not quite taking them round Kowloon. 

Long-tailed Tailorbird

I started off at about 7am in Tai Po Kau, a mountainous forested area close to the Chinese border. I'd visited here before in the company of a guide, but felt that I was well equipped to just do it myself this time. What a mistake that ended up being! I saw practically nothing! I heard a great deal, but barring one brief moment when a mixed flock of Hwamei and various other unidentified birds zoomed across a path, I basically slogged it up and down for four hours without seeing a bird. Talk about depressing - you know those mornings on Shetland where everything looks to be in place for an amazing morning and you head out at first light with ridiculous enthusiasm, and by eight you haven't really seen very much, and then nine comes and your head begins to go down a bit, and by ten you're totally disillusioned with the whole thing that is birding and it's shit and why did you bother and this is costing you money and you want to go home and wish you'd never come. Well it wasn't quite like that, as it was a nice 80 degrees and I'd seen a Scarlet Minivet, but I couldn't help but feel cheated. I mean this was the tropics, where were all the fabulous birds that are supposed to live here?

I sloped off back down the hill to consider my next move and wait for a bus back to the nearest station. It was midday and the sun was high in the sky. Did I really want to go to Long Valley, totally exposed, bake in the oppressive heat and not see any birds as they would all have disappeared by now. In for a penny in for a pound, so off I toddled via a bus, a tube and a taxi that I guided to the spot via a map on my phone. And it was superb, there were birds everywhere. The six-thousand miles of binocular transportation were immediately vindicated. Yellow Wagtails, White Wagtails, Wood Sandpipers, Snipe, Stonechat....Hang on a darn minute! I've seen all these birds a hundred yards from my house in Wanstead! Conned!

Stejneger's Stonechat (I think)

Wood Sandpiper

Twelve hours on a plane and a 5am start and now cheated by a bunch of european birds that I could easily see back home. Pah. But at least I could see them, unlike in the forest, so I ended up having a lovely afternoon picking my way around the dykes and bunds that surrounded the small scale agriculture, taking the odd photo here and there, for I had also carted a large lens half way across the planet. Think of a cross between paddy fields, an allotment, and St Martins on Scilly and you have it. 

Long-tailed Shrike

Red-whiskered Bulbul having a bad hair day

Dusky Warbler

There were also Olive-backed Pipits, Red-throated Pipits (on the ground!), Long-tailed Shrikes, Bulbuls and things I couldn't easily see back home, so these appeased my sense of outrage. Heaps of Little Egrets and Black-winged Stilts, and interestingly quite a few Dusky Warbler tukking away quietly to themselves. I spent ages trying to work out what these were, as they're as unobtrusive at home in Asia as they are when off-course in the UK. And of course Kentish Pond Heron....