Just Fish - short fiction

        Westway is never deserted, even at three-fifteen in the morning. You’ve driven up from Brixham, four hours on empty motorways, but London roads are never empty. The squad cars are bored, one has decided to tail you.

            The ice is melting.

You’re travelling at a steady thirty-eight, the limit is forty. Your lights work properly, some other things don’t, including the refrigeration. That shouldn’t interest the police. But the blue light flashes in your wing mirrors.

Weeeooooooow, weeeeoooow.

    The ice is melting.

        They are beautiful, these fish. Mackerel glisten, shimmer in a hundred shades of green and gold between gloss black stripes. Herring pour from tray to tray, a priceless cascade of silver, tainted gut red, some crushed by the weight of their companions in the bowels of the ship. Skates flap wings one final time and the majestic cod flicks a huge head, in death its silvery sheen and snow-white belly will bland to grey.

Weeeooooooow, weeeeoooow.

                The ice is melting.

        The Atlantic Ocean surrendered their lithe, goggle-eyed grace to the net, the gaff, the ice packed hold. Trawlers gathered around the jetty like remora around a welcoming shark, unloaded their cargo. Trays of dead and dying fish surged along the rollers, a mechanical death rattle to agonised gills fighting for water in the cold, arid air.

‘Is this your van, sir?’ Menacing tone, a torch deliberately shone in your eyes.

‘Yes, officer.’

        The ice is melting.     

‘Going somewhere nice are we, sir, at three o’clock in the morning?’

‘Billingsgate.’

        If the ice melts too fast, these exquisitely streamlined creatures will not be fresh. They’ll be rejected by fishmongers, restaurateurs and go for cat food; all that beauty and death for the delectation of the city’s pampered moggies.

‘So your van’s just full of fish fingers, is it?’

‘Fresh fish.’

‘Right! Have you got sole, or are you floundering?’ He’s a right joker, this cop.

        The ice is melting.

‘Would you like to have a shufti, officer?’

        You open the back of the van. Semi-frozen water slops onto the policeman’s feet as he stands too close to the rubber seal when it sucks free of the door. He steps back, swears. The other policeman takes the torch, shines it in. 

        A thousand golden, alien eyes glint, a million perfect scales glimmer. Striped Mackerel, they have clouds named after them, the mackerel sky you see at the end of a long, clear day. The humble herring, destined for kippers, rollmops and fertiliser, swirl in the water like smoke, seals and whales make no impression on their numbers, only man does that. Giant codfish were kings of the northern oceans, once.

‘Just fucking fish,’ says the cop with cold, wet feet.

‘Yes, officer. Just fish.’

‘I like fish,’ says the cop with the torch.

You give him two glossy mackerel, wrapped in yesterday’s Metro, so you can get on to Billingsgate.

The city’s cats will go hungry, tonight.

                                                                 

 

Winter Haiku - from my poetry collection, 'Still Life, With Waders'

 

Winter Haiku

 

High in the damson tree

brown leaves curl and crack,

Robin sings a solo.

 

Flashes of cold grey

white, stabbing yellow, gulls

fight over fish heads.

 

This vast cold sky

with crisp vapour trails.

We are not truly alone.

 

Iced fog settles

pale gulls vanish skyward,

daylight fails tonight.

 

In my wooden shed

a tortoiseshell butterfly sleeps.

Outside snow falls.

 

            *

All Birds are Dinosaurs - a poem

 Today, all birds are dinosaurs, the scientists have agreed.

A Moorhen swimming on a pond and Sparrows in a tree,

An Ostrich in the desert and King Penguins in a pool,

All of them are dinosaurs, I think that's really cool.

 

Trees are where it all began, when little dinos climbed

To get away from huge T Rex and all his fearsome kind.

They had warm blood and feathers too, that kept them nice and warm

They built nests high on trees and cliffs so their eggs came to no harm.

 

So, when that fatal meteor struck and all the big ones died,

The little dinos spread their wings, flew somewhere safe, to hide

They found just enough to eat, while the planet came alive.

They changed their shapes and habits, learning how to thrive.

 

Some lived down on forest floors, the Chickens and Peafowel

Others with claws liked eating mice and they became the Owls.

A few just loved the feel of air, flew everywhere to feed

They’re the swifts and albatrosses, who only land to breed.

 

Now, we’ve bred monster chickens who can’t stand on their feet

And we poison all the insects that the small birds need to eat.

The Gulls have learnt to grab our chips, but we destroy their nests

We steal their fish, invade their beaches, then we call them pests.

 

They watch us with their yellow eyes and clever dino minds.

They’ll summon up enormous flocks, crying out to all bird-kind.

The Vultures, Hawks and Eagles are all longing for a fight.            

The dinosaurs are coming and it truly serves us right.

Jane Goodall - obituary

 Very sorry to learn of the death of Dame Jane Goodall. She was a truly remarkable, practical zoologist who did so much to make the human race realise we are not the only sentient beings on the planet. 

I first learned about her work with the chimpanzees of Gombe National Park in Kenya when I read her her book 'In the Shadow of Man' in the early 70's. Even my father, a doctor, animal lover and natural history enthusiast, who taught me a lot about the natural world, especially birds, didn't really see non-human animals as intelligent, thinking beings. Jane empathised with the chimps and showed the intelligence and personalities of individuals. She convinced me of the arrogance of human attitudes.

Jane Goodall still campaigning on environmental issues 

shortly before her death on 2 October 2025.

After twenty years she widened her field of concern and became involved in worldwide environmental campaigning. She was a hugely important ambassador for wildlife and the environment and the world will be a poorer place without her. 

For Earth Day 22 April 2025 - a poem

 Passenger Pigeon

You dwelt in the vastness of the sky

with no fear of the hungry eagle

he couldn’t harm you in your millions.

 

You swarmed across the wild prairies

with no fear of the mighty bison

those couldn’t harm you in your millions.

 

You  soared over the Rocky Mountains

with no fear of the grey wolf packs

they couldn’t harm you in your millions.

 

You  nested in the red oak trees

with no fear of the long-legged bobcat,

she couldn’t harm you in your millions.

 

You  flapped above people’s villages

with no fear of the families in their tepees,

these couldn’t harm you in your millions.

 

You  flocked above the steaming railroads

with no fear of the well-armed hunter

he destroyed you, all of your millions.

*

The Passenger pigeon was once thought to be the most numerous bird on earth. The last one of their species died in Cincinnati Zoo in 1912.  Humans had named her Martha.

Birdgirl: A Young Environmentalist Looks to the Skies in Search of a Better Future - book review

 This is an important book 

Birdgirl: A Young Environmentalist Looks to the Skies in Search of a Better Future
by 

Mya-Rose Craig (Goodreads Author)

Sue's review

Dec 21, 2023  ·  edit

bookshelves: biog-memoir, might-read again

This book may appear to be about a girl's love of birds, certainly there are a lot of birds in it, but Birdgirl is far more than that. The young author's parents and sister also love birds and in many ways this love cements the family group in times of stress, pain and illness.

The story is of a girl growing up with a permanently stressed father and a mother who has a serious mental illness. The coming of age happens when the girl finally realises that her mother will never be cured, but will always love her. And when she realises that her calling is to fight for the whole environment, not just for the birds.

And the family's passion for birding, for travelling to the far corners of the world to sit, still and calm for hours waiting for the right bird to appear, is vividly described. And their concentrated joy when the bird appears brings brings tears to the eye.

This is a lovely book, a girl's growing-up story, a tale of birding and mania, travel and depression, racism, sexism and radicalism, enchanting places and enduring friendships.

I felt above all it's a family story because without the love, passion and support of her parents, Mya-Rose Craig might be a much more ordinary young woman. She wouldn't have become who she is today.
Birdgirl is a good read so be patient, you don't need to totally share her passion for birds to find the story fascinating.

The Eye of the Wind by Peter Scott - Book Review

 

The eye of the wind.
by 

Peter Markham Scott

Sue's review on Goodreads

Mar 11, 2023  ·  edit

shelves: animals, biog-memoir, non-fiction

This book belonged to my mother, or my father, not sure which. I quite enjoyed reading it despite a large part being taken up by Peter Scott's wartime experiences as a junior naval officer. His very detailed exploits are written with concise language, sometimes belying the excitement and tragedy of the events he describes.

Early in life Peter Scott's main claim to fame was as son of the ill-fated Antarctic explorer Captain Robert Falcon Scott. Before WW2 Peter was making a living as a painter of portraits and wildfowl and I was initially mostly interested in his art and relationship with wildlife and the countryside. He was also a very keen sailor, to Olympic standards and flew light aircraft and gliders. He gives the impression of a person who couldn't sit still for long.

There's no avoiding the fact that as a young man Peter Scott was a hunter who spent much of his 20's working out the best ways to trap and shoot animals, mainly wildfowl. However later this leopard changed his spots, realising eventually that he couldn't reconcile his love for birds, especially geese, with the activity of regularly slaughtering them. His understanding of the birds habits and experience of luring and trapping them were put to good use studying them, ringing them and in collecting live ones which eventually formed the foundation of the Wildfowl Trust flocks at Slimbridge, which he set up in the early 1950's.

I remember being taken there as a child to meet the geese, my father was a huge fan. I know that we met the ne-ne's or Hawiian geese, a species which Scott was certainly responsible for saving from extinction. So hunter or not, he was a great conservationist.

Swimming vs. Sewage

I learned to swim in warm, tropical seas and though the English Channel is my only option these days, I love it. The local sea area from Beachy Head to Hastings pier was recently declared a Marine Conservation Zone and has amongst many other delights, rare chalk reefs, seahorses, dogfish, many spawning species of fish and rock boring piddocks who glow in the dark!

Our beaches are stony at high tide, covered in a fascinating variety of smooth, rounded pebbles from common flints and chert to quartz, jasper and indeterminate geodes with tiny crystals glistening in their crevices. 

Low waters reveal gleaming sands for building castles and canals, there is the remains of a shipwreck, the Amsterdam which foundered in 1749, a  petrified forest and rockpools with a myriad tiny seashells and creatures all enjoyed by locals and holidaymakers alike. The clean waters and beaches have been a huge joy for us all during two Covid summers, until earlier this month.

At the height of the summer holiday, swimming became unwise and unsafe. A major sewage spill near the railway track at Bulverhythe flooded beach-huts, contaminated many miles of sea and beach. Southern Water, whose responsibility it is, spend as little as possible on maintaining the infrastructure whilst awarding their grandees and shareholders huge bonuses from the charges which we have to pay to them, to get fresh water and sewerage.

To say the people who live here are angry is an insulting understatement. Our Marine Conservation Zone is contaminated, beach hut owners lose their prized huts, the Hastings beach-launched fishing fleet may have to go elsewhere and many tourists surely will so many local livelihoods are threatened.

Is this the price we must pay, to live on a fairly crowded island, surrounded by waters which though beautiful are a mere pawn in political games and uncared for by capitalism? It damned well shouldn't be!

Red Kites - a Success Story

The striking silhouette of a red kite, soaring above a multi-story carpark in High Wycombe. 

This is how most of us will see these birds and if you spend much time driving on the M40 between West London and Birmingham you will certainly see a number of them.  They thrive on roadkill and, having been reintroduced into the Chilterns in 1989, that group have lost no time in adopting human road systems as routes for their own travel.

Four-hundred or more years ago, red kites lived throughout Britain and Ireland and were a common sight even in cities, Shakespeare wrote of them stealing underwear from clotheslines. Kites had and still have diverse appetites, eating carrion, insects, earthworms, small birds, rabbits, rodents and amphibians.  Where they used to scavenge on man-made rubbish and carrion they were often welcomed as useful in cleaning the streets.

 

But one hundred years ago the picture was very different.  By then they had been declared as 'vermin' and even had a bounty on their heads. They had been shot, trapped and poisoned out of existence by head-hunters, landowners, farmers and gamekeepers and their eggs were stolen by collectors.  Other birds of prey were treated with the same arrogant brutality, though most survived in larger numbers than the unfortunate red kites. Only a handful of kites were left in the whole of the British Isles, these were all in the West of Wales. 

 

Today the kites are back. Once they were fully protected, from 1950, the Welsh population  began to expand, though initially quite slowly.  DNA analysis a few years ago showed that the original handful of Welsh kites were all descended from a single female, indicating how precarious their position was.  Now the Welsh birds number in the low thousands, though for scientific purposes birds are usually counted in breeding pairs, so around 900 to 1,000 breeding pairs.  Non-breeding kites can travel long distances and are impossible to count.  

Birds from this successful Welsh population have been used to re-introduce the species to Eire, and Northern Ireland.  Once known in Ireland as 'cloth kites,' due to a propensity to incorporate pieces of pilfered rag into their nests, they were extinct by the turn of the 20th century.  A successful population has now been established in County Wicklow and Dublin. Re-introductions to County Down in Northern Ireland have also been successful and as kites have no concern for national borders these two populations have begun to emerge and expand.  

In England red kites have been re-introduced in groups, using birds originating in Spain and Scandinavia.  The birds were released in the Chilterns, Hertfordshire, Northamptonshire, Yorkshire, Gateshead, Northumberland and the Newcastle area and Grizedale Forest in Cumbria.  From these sites they have spread enthusiastically and if you keep your eyes open, there are kites to be seen gliding elegantly above every English county. 

The Scottish population was initially centred around release sites, the first of these in 1989, was at Black Isle near Inverness.  Others were in Dumfries and Galloway, Stirling-shire, Perthshire, Ross-shire, and near Aberdeen City.  These reintroductions have all been successful, though in places the birds are still being killed, sometimes by accident as when they eat poisoned bait left for foxes, but too often deliberately, by people who like killing things. 

There is no justification for killing kites, which are lightweight birds despite their 5-6 foot wingspans.  They are not strong hunters and feed manly on carrion, worms and insects, with small birds, rabbits, rats and mice if they happen to be able to catch them.  They are little threat to larger farm animals or pets. 

 

All the re-introduced groups have formed breeding populations and the total number in the UK today is around 2,000 pairs, according to the RSPB, who keep a close eye on them.  Still not a huge number of birds, but where they live, they are quite visible and not afraid to fly over towns and cities.  The first kite for 150 years was seen in London in 2006.  

This is a conservation success, unlike in much of Europe where they are declining.  The red kite is a European bird, with around 50,000 birds, few are found elsewhere.  From a handful of kites a hundred years ago, the British Isles is now home to more than 4,000 of these handsome birds, which is a significant percentage of the Total European population.  

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/red-kite/population-trends/

https://www.independent.co.uk/environment/shakespeares-red-kite-returns-to-london-after-an-absence-of-150-years-6111922.html

https://irelandswildlife.com/irish-red-kite-breeds-successfully-in-county-wicklow/?share=pocket

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/jul/20/red-kites-thriving-in-england-30-years-after-reintroduction

https://www.livingwithbirds.com/tweetapedia/21-facts-on-red-kite

https://www.irishnews.com/lifestyle/2017/11/25/news/take-on-nature-let-s-go-find-a-kite-1195097/



The Fairweather Gardener - Compost Bin, the Cons

Compost is a constant concern here, I only have space for one plastic bin and a small woodpile. The bin retains moisture and gets cuttings, weeds, trimmings and kitchen scraps and houses plenty of little red worms but also tens of hundreds of big green slugs. 

Ok I haven't got close enough to actually count them but I take my life in my hands when I heave off the lid, struggling with the weight. I feel I have to feed them every day or they will emerge and devour the garden, which is quite small. 

Help!

When May was July, then June Becomes March - The Fairweather Gardener

The sixth of June feels more like the sixth of March and I take full responsibility. 

Paeony, I can never get a good photo of these flowers, 

must be to do with the spectrum of their colour. 

I should try different equipment - yes I know,
a bad photographer always blames the camera!.

Foxgloves au naturel, self seeded. 

Beloved of bumble bees,
their tallest spire is taller than 

me, so well over five feet.

Red Hot Pokers have done better

than ever, 14 spires so far, but they 

weren't meant to flower until

July/August.

However the month of May was hot, sunny,  and  everything has flowered including one of my cacti, which normally wait until high summer.  Will there be anything left in flower by July?

I can probably rely on the lavender, valerian and my red, white and pink everlasting geraniums. They're  now four years old and have never stopped flowering, some stay outside all year, a couple come indoors for the coldest winter weather.  

More enthusiastic than ever before have been the red-hot pokers, the purple clematis, self seeded foxgloves and opium poppies. The tulips were lovely but mostly over by the start of May which is very early, their  bulbs are now drying out quietly beside the garage. The Clematis Montana, paeonies and the apple blossom came and went very fast, it was probably too dry for them. I expect I won't have many apples this year.

Then there's that rose. Ok there are four rose plants in the garden but only one is worth mentioning, the giant rambler.  It's flowering spectacularly even despite being given a very late prune in early March. This powerful plant grows like billy-oh and I love it! Its masses of soft, white flowers dominate the pergola and threaten to demolish the flimsy rose arch. They're scented and even I can smell them slightly; anosmia may be one symptom of Covid 19, but I've had it for years without ever being tested.

I planted out my courgette plants last week.  There are only two of them, a neighbour had put a row of sad little seedlings in small pots onto their garden wall with an invitation to help ourselves, so I kindly took in two unwanted orphans.  I potted them on and they've been growing happily on the conservatory windowsill in the wonderful May sunshine. 

Then I treated them severely by potting them out into a zinc tub in the garden, with fresh compost mixed with organic plant feed. They perked up after thirty-six hours and one even produced its first flower, at which point the weather decided it was still March. So it's my fault! 

Will there be any courgettes? Who knows, I'm not carrying a fifty litre tub full of wet compost and sad little plants indoors and then outside again if the sun comes out.  Sorry if this amounts to courgette abuse but they'll have to take their chances! 

Landfill by Tim Dee - Book Review

First we must get one thing clear, they are not seagulls they are gulls! They have been encouraged by human activity to live in our towns and inhabit our space, even spaces we don't care about, such as town centre rooftops and landfill sites.

This remarkable, poetic and sorrowful book covers Tim Dee's deep affection, admiration and concern for gulls. Everything you never realised you need to know about these beautiful, slightly alien looking birds, Tim can tell you, or he has a friend who can. He quotes from many erudite enthusiasts. For a start there are many more species of gull than you thought, there are more sub-species than even the most expert gull watchers can identify, and they are still evolving.

An extraordinary chapter tells of Tim's day out at Pitsea landfill site with the North Thames Gull Group. He helps the gullers to net hundreds of gulls feeding on the garbage and ring them before re-release. His description of just handling these birds, the unfamiliarity and intimacy of them, is moving and remarkable.

There are literary gulls, Iceland gulls, feisty gulls, London gulls, ringed gulls, landfill gulls, Bristol gulls, inland gulls and even Jonathan Livingston Seagulls.

Towards the end the book diverges from gulls and landfill and goes in search of a Madagascar nightjar, whose call has never been recorded. While this short chapter seems at first out of place it's a forgivable diversion. The delight of the experience shines through.

The author ends with his encounter with an Iceland gull, near his home.

I could quote from the book, but I wouldn't know where to stop, the writing is beautiful. If you think you don't like gulls, you're really missing a lot.

New Year, New Elephants - poem... because we have to be optimistic. .. or what?

New Year, New Elephants.


No happy new year for unknown warrior-horses

who remember no poppies, only their boon

companions trapped in mud and blood, screaming.           



Ancient koalas watch their gum trees burn and 

remember a new year when they were the first beings

in their gold-red land under the clear, wide sky.



Sir crow, summiting the naked cherry tree

remembers every ruby-fruit and can predict

their re-birth in the joy of summer light.



Lady camel transports vast burdens of memory

over baking deserts, while calculating that

the next dune is not too high for her calf.



Lord elephant remembers his enemy who

carries boom-stick and saw to destroy

his family, fire and axe to destroy his home.



To all creatures great and human I wish

a New Year of fresh eucalyptus, poppy and cherries,

new life, safe haven and making new memories.

*

The Fairweather Gardener - November

I hardly went out into the garden in October, except to note that the bird-feeders are constantly empty within 48 hours of being filled, it's the starlings wot does it! I have a bird table and hang the feeders under our large pergola, because otherwise the gulls would eat everything they could get at, including the small birds who I'm trying to encourage. Not seen a huge variety of species in the garden so far, wood pigeon, sparrow, wren, starling, dunnock, robin, blue tit, great tit, coal tit, crow, goldfinch and a poor garden warbler that the cat brought in. I miss the garden we had before, it backed onto woodland and I counted over 40 species there, not counting the peacock because he was strolling up the road, I didn't seen him from or in the garden!

I did go-a-gardening today, sunshine was nice after all that rain and all the weeds were wet so pulled up easily. I put most of them in the compost bin, which is heaving with red brandling worms as well as woodlice, snails and big leopard slugs. However the couch grass has gone into the big bag of leaves for the tip.

Said leaves are mostly from the neighbour's tall sycamore, one branch of this is trying to take the roof off my garage, must finds a man with a ladder and a big saw. I've collected several bags of leaves to make leaf-mould but am worried that I've collected all the seeds up with them, will I just have bag's full of saplings? Then I'd feel guilty that I wasn't growing them on as trees, the planet needs trees but my small garden can't accommodate a thousand sycamores.

Another recent job was to sweep the patio and clear the path of leaves and growing things. I won't call them weeds, they include campanula, moss, dandelion, foxglove, geranium and oxalis. All are welcome in the right place, but I do need to keep the path clear for my mum who arrives in a wheelchair these days. I allowed one foxglove to stay overhanging , I love them and it's taken up residence right by the low wall where the path widens out so shouldn't be a problem.

What's flowering? Geraniums, chrysanthemum, hydrangea, kalanchoe, winter jasmine, cyclamen, not as much as at this time last year, that long hot summer kept things going well into winter. I've moved some to the geraniums indoors and must remember to do the same with the kalanchoes tomorrow. On the plus side, in my small conservatory my Christmas cactus has just begun to flower and one of my jade plants has produced tiny, aromatic, white flowers.

Rhinoceros - Word of the Day

Today is World Rhino Day. Which has been observed annually on September 22nd since 2010.  
  

The word Rhinoceros comes from Greek, Rhino meaning nose and Keros meaning horn.

We all know what a rhino looks like.  This is an Eastern Black Rhino, living in safety at Port Lympne where they have a breeding program which is contributing to the survival of this endangered species. But all 5 existing species of rhino are endangered, most of them critically. 


All the Rhinoceros on earth are the survivors of populations of many millions, in dozens of species, which once lived all over Europe, Asia, Africa and Northern America. Now there are less than 30,000 rhinos on earth. 
figures from-
www.savetherhino.org/rhino-info/population-figures/

The rhino's problem lies in that nose horn, and the madness of the situation lies in the word Keros - from which we get Keratin. This is the root of the rhino's problem. Keratin from their horns is believed by many people to have almost magical curative properties, particularly for high fever.  

Keratin has no scientifically proven curative properties of any sort, whether from rhino horn, cows' hoof or human fingernails. So once all the Rhinoceros have been exterminated people who hold this belief will at least be able to chew their own fingernails. It will cost them a lot less than rhino horn and will have exactly the same effect.

Palm Oil, Why is it in Almost Everything I Try to Buy?!

Does bread and breakfast cereal need to contain Palm oil? What about peanut butter and lemon meringue pie? Or toothpaste, or shampoo? Of course not, so why the hell is it there?? Companies who claim that their palm oil is sustainably sourced are very seldom telling the truth; they either don't know and take someone else's word for it, or they more likely don't care. Forest destruction and the slaughter of wildlife continues, while they are still filling almost every product we can buy with unnecessary palm oil.

On a recent journey I was thirsty. Stopped at the small Tunbridge Wells service station on the A21 and nearly bought a bottle of M & S sparkling Florida Orange drink. But saw in time that it contains palm oil so put it back. Why a soft drink of any kind needs to contain oil, let alone palm oil, is beyond my comprehension. What was in them before palm oil became the go to ingredient for every manufactured product in the universe? Palm oil comes from the nut, palm kernel oil which is used in soaps etc comes from the outer layer around the nut. 

So, when did palm oil become ubiquitous? Not before the 1960's. I understand that the oil palm tree - Scientific name: Elaeis guineensisis - originated in West Africa, where it's been used by humans for four or five thousand years. But don't blame Africa, the continent itself uses all the palm oil grown there. Its spread to Indonesia and Malaysia began in the nineteenth century, introduced by colonial Europeans from The Netherlands and Britain. However it wasn't until the 60's that oil palm plantations in the Far East began to spread beyond what had previously been rubber plantations and onto land carved and burned out of the rainforests.

The oil palm is an easily cultivated, highly productive tree and creates more usable oil from its nuts than any other tree on the planet. So it's cheap, easily available and who cares about the orang-utans, or the forest ecosystems, or the carbon released into the atmosphere by their destruction? Not the companies producing and exporting the oil, that's for sure. And we're to blame for encouraging them.

New Year Resolution - What's mine? Less Waste, More Thrift.

Is there any point to making a new year's resolution? I'm bad at keeping up random commitments/expectations of myself at the best of times and I suspect plenty of other people are too. I'm making no judgements. I have no intention of expounding any expectations I'd like to have for my family, friends, country, Prime Minister, Jeremy Corbin, East Coast Mainline trains, European Union, Huddersfield Town FC, Brexit, Monster Raving Loony Party, Old Uncle Tom Cobbley and/or all. But I have quietly made a commitment relating to my post of 8 August 2018:-

https://sugswritersblog.blogspot.com/2018/08/its-environment-stupid.html

Any sane commitment I make for the future has to be aimed at helping to save the environment. So for now, mine is that I shall try to be less wasteful. I started by saving some of the Christmas wrapping paper, ribbons and ties that were used. I do remember that my grandparents, both sides of the family, did this and really nice, good quality wrapping paper often reappeared three or four years running before finally being consigned to the fireplace or bin. They didn't do this because of serious poverty but through innate thrift, which we seem to have forgotten is a virtue.

Wrapping paper is largely insignificant, do I realise this and will try to do more, much more. Just as soon as I get over this damn horrible cold! At least the dirty tissues have gone in the stove and briefly helped to keep us warm, thus saving a minute puff of gas.

Signing Petitions.

In the past month I've signed ten petitions. I've been sent a request to sign about twice that number, but I'm selective. I have to be, I can't become a petition junkie like at least one person I know.
It's the environment, it's the NHS, Brexit and the atrocities happening because of the arms trade which I try to concentrate on.

Should I feel guilty not signing petitions about the plight of individuals, whether they're murdered journalists, sick children or people imprisoned for their beliefs? I don't believe I should really, I try hard to look at bigger pictures.

I do try to take part by signing and sharing if I feel the petition may have a chance of :-

A) Reaching and being read by the person it's addressed to. Any petition addressed vaguely to a government or corporation will undoubtedly find its way to the bin/delete button without anybody senior having to bother with it.

B) Not be disregarded, because I'm not in the USA, or Saudi Arabia, or wherever the topic of the petition relates to. Foreign signatures may devalue a petition in the eyes of the people it's aimed at, particularly if it's on a local issue.

It's the Environment, Stupid.

My recent reading matter has brought something to my attention. I read 'Reservoir 13', I have just finished Gerald Durrell's biography, now I am reading, with a little difficulty, 'H is For Hawk.' All these books have at their centre a depth of knowledge of and care for the natural world and man's involvement with it. This morning I woke up and realised that this is what I care for and about, more than anything else. How have I not been able to acknowledge this before?

Online, I read stories about environmental destruction and devastated communities, about for example, rhinos slaughtered for their horns and children suffering from terrible diseases. All these make me feel sad, more than sad, but the ones that make me feel desperate are the environmental stories and the slaughter of endangered, irreplaceable species. And so then I feel guilty about not caring enough for the suffering children. Maybe this feeling of guilt has clouded my sense of what is fundamentally important.

But thinking about it, my care about suffering children is innate. I'm a mother and grandmother, of course I care about the suffering of children. However I have to protect myself. If I grieve over every little boy with incurable brain damage or every little Yemeni girl starving to death before her mother's eyes, then I will die of exhausted grief and nobody will gain. Empathy can only go so far if an individual human being is to survive and remain sane. Think of the X Men founder Charles Xavier as a young man, having to learn to control his empathy before the mass of human suffering over-whelmed him. We all need to learn this - or switch the internet off.

A love for 'God's Creation' wasn't dutifully pumped into me as an infant, although christianity was vaguely involved. I was read bible stories involving animals at a sunday school that I attended for a couple of years. And I was read Kipling, the wonderful, poetic Just So Stories, the more adventurous Jungle Books, all about man and animals in natural settings. So partly by their chosen reading matter it was the adults in my family who began my deeper involvement in creatures and nature in general.

My mother's mother taught me many things in the garden, when I was very tiny, including the names of all the wild and tame flowers and that worms were good and should not be killed. My father's father, on the other hand, showed me that nature was to be tamed, controlled and turned to production in his burgeoning fruit garden, he would trap and shoot the pretty brown rats that dared to venture into his compost pits. Meanwhile his wife, my Granny, was allowed to feed 'her' robin, Bobbity, at a little bird table on the kitchen window ledge.

Their son, my father, loved wild and solitary places, marshes and mountains, deserts and rocky coasts. He was a twitcher and more. He showed me that nature was wild and free. When I was a confused, sulky teenager he drove us for many hours to Loch Garten, to show us the only ospreys then nesting in the UK. All I saw then was a distant bird, soaring, silhouetted against the grey sky and water. Nobody controlled that bird.

Today there are probably 300 pairs of osprey breeding in the UK. Should this give me hope?