A Long-tailed Duck appeared in Peckham the other day. Not the most obvious place for one to turn up, but seeing as I've now seen more LTDs in London than Mallards, frankly it appears they can get anywhere. I went about five years without seeing a local one, but between last November and today I'd seen 283,990 within ten miles of my house. Once Peckham has been checked out, the bird wisely moved on, heading to a duck pond in Greenwich. Go and see it, urged James L, it shows like a dream. No time, grrrrr. I considered going to see it there on Saturday morning, but failed to wake up, and in the event it wasn't there anyway, having now decided that Rotherhithe was where it was at, which is where Rich B found it a little later. Come and see it, he urged, and bring a long lens! But cousin Emma would not have been pleased if I'd chosen a duck over her wedding, so I decided to give it a miss. However as of yesterday evening it was still there, so on the off-chance that it might still be there today, I bowled up to work in Canary Wharf toting my camera bag.
It was still there, and I got regular updates during the day of its continued presence. This caused me to press the sod-it button relatively early this evening, and one short tube stop later I was staring at my 283,991st London Long-tailed Duck. Sweet. Except that it stayed resolutely in the centre of Canada Water. Rich, still at work, suggested finding some bread to tempt the Tufties in, the thinking being that the LTD would likely follow. So I toddled off to Tescos with my 500mm under my arm and bought a loaf for 90p, getting some pretty strange looks.
It worked like a charm, though the LTD probably ate more bread than the Tufties, ahem. I had to become a temporary member of the Rotherhithe Angling Club in order to get low to the water; nothing like trashing a pin-striped suit with a bit of guano in the pursuit of art and happiness. In the end Rich couldn't resist the lure of seeing it yet again, and so came down and joined me for what was some quality pappage. Gazillions more photos here. A Common Tern was also hanging around, so I papped that too. It's what people like me do.
I've not picked up bins this weekend at all. Not even once. A family wedding yesterday, and a follow-up barbeque lunch today has meant no birds, but we have had a wonderful time. The wedding was sans enfants, so Mrs L and I got to be grownups and stay up late. Today, once my grownup hangover had abated, was a family barbeque with all the children. Football and French cricket in the garden, and lots of lovely water to drink - I feel fine now, but it was touch and go early this morning.
Naturally the camera came too. Not that I'm that enamoured with taking photos of people, but it's always good to broaden what you do, and in my case, lets me dust off various lenses that don't see a lot of use in the normal course of business. Only one of my three children would submit to having their photo taken, and of course it was the youngest one - of the three of them she is the natural show-off, the drama queen, the actress and the live-wire. I really like these ones, can't believe she'll be six soon, where does time go?
I'm late to this due to a bit of time spent being intolerant, but there has been one and only one story in British birding circles this week (well, twitching circles, if that's different) and that has been the fiasco surrounding the mis-identification, or the mis-broadcasting of the almost-identification of a monster rarity in Devon, Orphean Warbler.
Like many, it would seem, I checked for bird news before heading off to bed on Tuesday evening. I am a well-rounded individual. Not that I'm a hugely keen twitcher, especially not now, and on a school night there is little potential anyway, but it's developed into a bit of a habit due in no small part to a tendency for recent megas to break fairly late, cf the recent Dusky Thrush.
Ooooh, will you look at that! An Orphean Warbler in Devon. Mega-alerted no less! A specific routine now kicks in - I jump in the car and drive there immediately! I'm kidding. What I mean is that I log onto BirdForum to see if anyone actually believes it. And lo, there is commentary suggesting it is without a shadow of doubt one, with confirming (and comforting) observer names. There is even a blurry photo of about a tenth of a warbler and a song recording. I have a quick listen, both to the recording on the net and to the recording on my phone, come to no sound conclusion one way or the other as it is late and for me it makes no difference as I can't go anyway, and then I go to bed, dreaming thoughts of mass twitchery and ticks. I wonder briefly who might be waking up a little early and can't think of anyone so filthy........ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The next morning dawns with the mega still present and correct, but before I am even out the door it appears there is a problem. Twitter is going ballistic, and there are MAJOR CONCERNS about the bird. Two minutes later and it is a Lesser Whitethroat. Eh? Oh dear oh dear. I mean, really? One is about twice the size of the other for starters. So last night a definite nailed on mega, today in the half-light a common summer breeder. How did that happen?! And far more importantly - and with a suppressed snigger - how many people are currently in Devon about to start a riot?! And even more importantly than that, do I know any of them?!!
More twitter messages are now coming through, and.......wait a minute, yes! There is some excellent news of exactly the sort I had been hoping for! I do know somebody! Fantastic! I couldn't possibly say who it is, but this is what birding is all about in many ways and easily one of the best things about twitching. And this is a proper banana skin. Yes it's about the thrill of the chase, yes it's about the numbers, yes it's about relief and despair in equal measure, but mostly it's about being able to have a bit of a giggle at your mates, or indeed at yourself. We've all done it of course, a desperate journey, the bird seen well and self congratulation begins. In my case it was even worse - I was actually home again before the Greater Yellowlegs a hundred miles away was re-identified as a Greenshank! I hadn't suffered the ignominy of having already put it on Bubo and having to slink back on and delete it, but I felt enormously stupid. However rather than blushing furiously and cursing, rewriting history and myself out of it, my response then and now, once the initial disbelief had passed, was to have a bit of a giggle. I mean what else can you do? Even today, when I think back to how smug I was feeling having arrived at the school gates, a distant mega snaffled in the meagre time available to me, an involuntary giggle never fails to escape my lips. Yes it's embarrassing, yes it's very silly, but above all it's very funny. Especially if it wasn't you! I appreciate that those who had driven overnight from various distant places (for instance, and entirely hypothetically, Walthamstow) might not see the funny side quite as clearly, but in time I am sure they will come round.
Of course the real fun starts now, the finger-pointing, the rewriting of history (and deletion of blog posts), the accusations and denials. And it's all there for everyone to enjoy, on the same place that confirmed the ID for many people in the first place. Top quality entertainment, and 100% free! Perhaps the best bit of all is that the young guy that found the bird hasn't had to revert to revisionism at all, as almost from the start he maintained it was a Lesser Whitethroat with a funny song, and presumably was quite surprised when birders from all over the country arrived on his patch slavering in anticipation of an Orphean Warbler, only to slope back to their cars feeling confused and ashamed, and with work many miles away, presumably all with nasty coughs coming on.....
Whilst the South-West gets ready for a wholesale slaughter, Badgers in Wanstead appear not to be feeling the strain. That is all I have to say.
Against my better judgement, I have been provoked into writing a blog post. Before I start, I should make it clear that I have nothing whatsoever to say, and that what I do say I have said before. Generally it makes unpopular reading, that is to say, it makes me unpopular. It makes me come across as arrogant, right-wing, and a shit. It is probably how I get this misplaced Toryboy image - I speak proper, I work in a bank (though not in the champagne-popping, Ferrari-driving bit as commonly portrayed in the media), and I hate scroungers. That's a shallow way to judge someone.
I was having this conversation with a friend the other day. Well, not exactly this one, but along similar lines. It was basically how I couldn't vote for anyone as I hated them all. Not that I take a great interest in politics, and I could be entirely wrong about some things. Many things most likely. But anyway, and although this may come as a surprise to some, I could not possibly vote for the Conservatives for reasons recently made clear here. Namely that they are a self-serving bunch of walking environmental disasters with seemingly no concept of democracy. Fine, so they're out. The Lib Dems then, are they my natural home? No. They're a load of pathetic ideologists with no hope of ever making a difference other than taxing me out of existence. The Labour party? Iraq. And they're basically Tories anyway. The Green Party? Laudable in some respects, unfortunately so far removed from reality that they're not a realistic choice in the modern world. UKIP? Not if you paid me. The BNP? The day those fascist pricks wield any kind of meaningful power is the day I emigrate. So politics it seems is not for me. There are probably a heap of fringe parties I have failed to mention, but nobody knows who they are anyway, and I might as well walk into my polling station and eat my ballot paper for all the good it would do voting for one of them. But I still hate scroungers, which makes me......makes me what exactly? Nothing. It makes me nothing. I go to work, I provide for my family, I am at this point no burden on the State other than the education that my children receive, but that's where my taxes go. Oh, and to shooting badgers and conducting illegitimate warfare overseas.
As I was walking home from work tonight, at about 7.30pm or so (half day...) I noticed a guy sitting on a bench in the sunshine. I say sitting, really I mean lolling. He looked most contented, and was enjoying a beer and a cigarette. Fair enough, we all like to unwind after a long hard day, indeed I myself was on my way to a bit of unwinding as well, having left the house at around 7am. Except this was the man who for years now has hung around Leytonstone tube station asking for 90p for the bus. I've not seen him for a while, probably because I typically go one stop further up to Wanstead station so as to avoid getting mugged by yet more honest and hard-working folk, and what with rising fares he probably asks for more than 90p these days, but I digress. In addition to being a liar, he's a complete and utter scrounger. He's the kind of person that instantly gets my hackles up. The kind of person who gets to sit around doing whatever the hell he wants (OK, so perhaps not exactly pursuing his dreams necessarily, but you know what I mean) whilst I schlep off to work and indirectly provide financial assistance so that he doesn't have to. He looked really happy, angelically at peace with the world. Of down in the dumpness there was not a hint. I tweeted, as is the modern way, some words of mock surprise. And (thank you Mark) I received a reply. The suggestion was that rather than be bitter and angry, I should go home, uncork a bottle, and toast my luck. A fine sentiment. Live and let live.
Apart from the luck.
I am not railing against the unfortunates of this world. I am railing against the suggestion that in any way, shape or form, the fact that I enjoy a happy life free from many worries and financial pressure is down to luck. Bollocks. It's down to choices. A friend of mine called Dal, who has had twenty jobs in the same time in which I have had two, frequently insists I am the luckiest person on the planet. Poppycock. Complete garbage. The fact that my life is currently where it is at is essentially due to one thing and one thing only, and that thing is called effort. Effort from the age of about 15. Jobs before school and after school. Jobs in the holidays. Exams. Hard work. Toil. Graft. Going out every day and doing something I do not enjoy so that I can do things I do enjoy on the few days that I am not working. So that, many years down the line, I can buy nice camera lenses I never get to use to their fullest extent. So that I can give my children exciting experiences. So that they can play musical instruments if they so choose. So that they can be members of a cricket club. The list is endless, but so that, in short, I am free to make some life choices. Not everybody gets that opportunity of course, but the point is that nobody came along and handed it to me on a plate, and I didn't win some kind of life lottery that solely and exclusively determined my fortunes. There is a school of thought that talks about the cards people are dealt, and I concede that there is an element of truth there, and that my upbringing was trouble free with loving parents who insisted on education (In case anyone thinks I went to Gordonstoun or wherever, I didn't, I went to my local community college. Whatever). But there are plenty of stories of people overcoming the below-par cards they ended up with and doing just fine, excelling even. The difference tends to be willpower and determination. Some people would call that luck. Crap.
My health is luck. Or at least to a certain extent. For instance is it lucky that I don't wreck my body with crystal meth? Or lucky that I don't do crack cocaine every night of the week, even though I could probably afford it? Possibly, possibly...... who can say what will happen, but at the moment I am healthy and I am thankful. But absent health issues, the reason I do alright is very simple, and has nothing whatsoever to do with luck. I get along in life because I work my socks off. I have not taken the easy way out. I grind it out day after interminable day. I absorb myself in it. I bring it home. I allow my mood to be dictated by it. I think about it day and night. I piss my family off with it, and I am mostly a grumpy bastard because of it. I don't pull sickies, I just get on with it. I expend a huge amount of effort and time to making a success out of it. Luck? Forget it, it's called effort, and anyone who pitches up and calls me a lucky so-and-so is delusional (sorry Mark, I don't buy that one little bit). Is that a Tory attitude? I don't know, and I don't care. I don't give a shit what you label it as, as long as there is a recognition that the reason I am not sitting on a sun-kissed bench swilling premium lager and pulling on a fag is that I have chosen to work for a living rather than waste my life scrounging off other people.
The counter-argument is of course that there are plenty of people out there who put in a lot more effort than I do, work a lot harder than I do, and still end up on the metaphorical bench. I reckon that must just be bad luck.
Normally June is the beginning of the dead period. Birders give up on birds (as there aren't any) and start harassing insects instead. I started in May, when my attention was captured by a butterfly for at least half an hour. It was a Green Hairstreak, and it got local birders insect-lovers all excited as it was the first in Wanstead since 500 B.C. They all rushed out and found loads more, so now it's a common Wanstead butterfly and not exciting at all any more. So back to June and the doldrums....
As I mentioned yesterday, I had a very unenthusiastic day in Suffolk and Norfolk. I pressed the shutter of my camera about 80 times (this is an unbelievably small number) and basically lost the will to live. I ended up having two naps in the car, and my day list was around thirty. Today I took zero. This is unheard of, I reckon I must be ill. The day revolved around lego, cricket and tidying up before Mrs L returns from a trip abroad. The first two I can cope with, the third is less satisfying, especially on a sunny day. 'Tis done now, but five days of toil now stretch to the horizon.
What I need is a holiday.
Somehow dragged my sorry ass out of bed at silly o'clock today for the early morning shift at Lakenheath. Gropper came first, a lower and slower reel, and then when I turned the next corner the Savi's had dialled it up a notch - much quicker, and as a result sounded higher-pitched. It showed pretty nicely in the reeds through the scope, but far too far away to bother with the camera. First I've seen in East Anglia, and the first I've seen since 2009 - hence my interest in going up there today. A Golden Oriole sang briefly, suspect I won't get that on the yearlist many more times, and more's the pity.
I remember when I life-ticked Golden Oriole at Lakenheath - still the only place in this country that I've ever seen them - and they were seemingly all over the place. The actual moment of tickage came when three birds, two males and a female, flew in a rough circle above my head between two of the plantations before dropping back in. A short while later they repeated the feat. Since then (this was in 2008 I think) my views have got shorter, more often than not it's been down to a single bird, and today I didn't even see it. Very sad, but I understand a lot of people were marching about this in central London. One group were marching down Whitehall as they hate Orioles for some reason, but another group of more liberal people prevented them doing this - in a peaceful manner obviously, only to be branded traitors. Meanwhile a whole load of Badgers turned up nearby to protest about Buzzards killing cattle. I avoided London today, it was all too marchy and protest for my liking - I enjoy the quiet life and moaning about things in the comfort of my own home. When I eventually did return to the capital I got stuck in traffic near Twickenham stadium due to Beyoncé. God knows what she was demonstrating about. The lack of recent lucrative gigs for tyrannical dictators? Shucks.
Anyhow, despite planning a day out with the camera, I felt so lacklustre today that I barely lifted the camera to my eye in ten hours. Basically everything was too far away and I couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. This Wren near the visitor centre at Lakenheath was the sole exception.
