Escape

I’m off to London tomorrow, and very much looking forward to seeing something other than snowy fields. Life has been utterly dominated by weather for more than three months, and it’s getting very wearing. As the Professor was saying this morning, it’s the having to think about it ALL THE TIME. A gay social whirl of the British Library, going to, and giving, papers in Oxford & discussing the progress of an exceptionally tedious project stretches before me, but anything is better than this and at least I can get a haircut. We went into the garden centre today to replace some pots utterly destroyed by the frost, and I discovered the existence of a special feeder for finches – there’s a very small, oil rich seed called niger which goldfinches et al love, and which would pour straight out of an ordinary feeder. I’m only sorry I hadn’t discovered it before, because how these tiny birds have coped with the winter I can’t think. Perhaps they haven’t. Anyway I look forward with interest to seeing when they discover it – it’s hung up in my garden. To continue the nature notes, the big tabby and white cat is still with us, and seems to have moved in, though it all seems quite amicable, and there has been no dissent from the existing rough cats.

2 Responses to “Escape”

  1. The French Correspondent Says:

    I don’t think the poor birds are coping too well. I was driving from the garage in Maud after a whole saga of car failings last week, on a road kept almost entirely white by a strong drift of snow. I was amazed to see tiny flocks of birds fly up from the side of the road as I drove along. I assume that the only shelter they’d found was under the roadside bank, literally on the road, and more or less on each other too, judging from the way they all seemed to rise from the same spot. I drove into a fence later on that afternoon, but was rather more upset by the birds’ lot.

  2. the northern gentleman Says:

    On 17 February, Eleanor and I found a robin, unwounded but frozen stiff and quite dead, lying on its back on some glare ice by the front of our parked car. A Scottish version of Pennsylvania’s ‘Groundhog Day’ tradition strongly suggests itself.

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