Blogging

Mary Beard recommends blogging four times a week. That is how I was going to open this post - and indeed, I see that I have done so. Then I thought I'd better check that's what she actually says. She doesn't. Such is the delightful caprice of my memory. I was once convinced that I remembered everything exactly as it was, and sadly events often confirmed that I did, which is a dangerous situation. When one is Often Right, it is easy to slip into Invariably Right, then hubristically headfirst into Always Right Without Exception. Back to MB. What she actually says, in her introduction to the second collection of her blog posts, All in a Don's Day, is that her rule for herself is "...two posts a week, rain or shine...". As I admire her tremendously (cf wrens) I was going to follow her rule, but now I've confused myself by not remembering the rule correctly. I could choose to go with 4 times a week, but that now seems uninviting as it does not bear the imprimatur of the excellent Professor Beard.

I know some people who post every day, as a sort of challenge, and I can see the attraction of that -  sitting down every day to write, whether you know what you are going to write or not. (Not necessarily sitting down, of course. And not necessarily not knowing.) Here's a daily blog I love: Boo Hewerdine's Blog Thing.

Speaking of Boo Hewerdine, I saw a 2003 documentary about Richard Thompson the other day. Well worth a watch if you are interested in the processes of a singer-songwriter, the history of electric folk, or would just like to hear dear John Peel's voice again. Time for a musical interlude? Here's Meet On The Ledge. Stills only, but evocative. Pass the joss sticks.

So I don't know how often to blog. Perhaps I'll just see.

Thanks for joining me today. I hope you will join me again. Whenever that is.

Birds

I like birds. I like looking at them as they go about their business. I often imagine myself as an eagle, soaring over fields and rivers, resting on mountain-tops. I never imagine myself as a wren. I admire them tremendously, but their tiny lives are fraught with danger.

Time for an educational musical interlude - hurrah! We'll have Steeleye Span singing Hunt the Wren. Gosh, I got distracted on YouTube and instead we have the Clancy Brothers (and the Furey brothers, apparently. What good value.) in a fine example of singing without breathing whilst wearing heavy sweaters. Here they are.

I once went to a zoo in France. I confess to a liking for zoos, even though it's cruel to cage animals etc. I was born and brought up in Bristol, home to a very fine zoo and, of course, the BBC natural history department, so I developed a sense of ownership in the world of looking at wildlife, in that way that is so comforting to a child. The French zoo was run-down and terrifying. There was a large enclosure containing all manner of avian life, which was open to humans. I noticed the vultures about half-way through. Part of me knew that vultures eat dead things, not live tourists, but the part of me that goes round screaming "we're all going to die!" wrestled the sensible part to the ground and propelled me, stiff-legged, to the exit. Toute suite. The zoo also had a scary bear, that rocked back and forwards, measuring the jumping distance out of his sunken home. Put me right off zoos for a long time.

Some birds are huge. Here is a picture of a jabiru:

It's massive. Adult males can be 5ft tall and can have a wingspan of 9ft. Don't panic, you are unlikely to meet one unless you live in South America. If you do live in South America, steer clear, especially if you are on the small side. Or are made of straw.

Thank you for meandering with me today. We may return to birds as there is much more to say - I haven't mentioned Sepulchrave, Earl of Groan, for instance. Well, I have now.