Terminally confused

Posted on December 10, 2013 by readersaurus

The tree is dressed and wreaths of roses are clambering up the staircase. All the presents have been purchased and a few have been wrapped. Beverley’s paid a welcome seasonal visit and I’ve bought some of the food that we might be eating in a couple of weeks.

Arrangements for New Year’s Eve have even been – well – arranged. All in all, it’s not a bad start.

However, cards have not been written because there are no cards; I’m no longer financing Royal Mail or whatever they’re called this week. Lists have not been made because there’s been no time. At the end of such a long term, those of us who would have retired by now had we been born a decade earlier are literally dragging ourselves around the place, aging by the hour. People apologise for being unable to string a sentence together at 8am; and again at what used to be referred to as lunch-time before it was cancelled; and at close of play. There has to be some gloom in order that we can look forward. But, on the other hand, the rabbit now owns a suitcase.

The search has been epic in proportions: all over the country, folk have been on the look-out for a suitable accessory in which Barley can pack his flannel and toothbrush when he goes home for the weekend with one or other of the schoolchildren. Finally, at an outing the three of us took to the vintage market last Saturday, a red and white spotted suitcase, replete with ancient brown label, was located by aged friend. Eagerly, we peered at the ancient brown label to ascertain the cost. What did it say? ‘Not for Sale’. NO! Surely not. Young woman, hopelessly trying to claim its raison d’etre was to display her peg angels, was beaten into submission by the old folks. There was no escape and the deal was done; obviously with a discount for upsetting the elderly.

Barley’s battered suitcase was passed to man-child’s girlfriend via man-child with a degree of smugness. We will amiably humour the young school-teacher without a hint of ridicule. Young and very well brought-up school-teacher asked, electronically, how much she owed.

‘Nothing: it’s a gift for the rabbit’.

In return, ancient being was sent a photograph of Barley clutching his new suitcase.

What’s this? Barley is not a REAL rabbit! Can it be true? We’ve spent weeks on a mission for a stuffed animal?

Tonight, the Christmas Star is shining brightly over the reed marshes; over the Sika deer; over the never-yet-seen otters; over the quietened seabirds; over the getting-ready-to-hoot owls; over the hungry foxes; all over our little world and hopefully over all of you, dear readers.

Ghosts of Max Gate: the hare

Posted on November 21, 2013 by readersaurus

One night in June, the 21^st to be precise, the hare rested awhile by the red brick wall of the kitchen. Having enjoyed a hearty supper of carrot tops, he was surveying his territory in the kitchen garden with a great deal of satisfaction. He thought this to be the most welcoming place in Dorset for Mr Hardy gave strict instructions that no traps were to be laid against animals or birds. Further, even though the moonlight illuminated his white coat, and made no secret of his location by the old stone roller (which, inadvertently, Bertie had left out), the hare knew that no-one could see him. Not that there was anyone else to notice, apart from the others.

The others, their white robes also lit by the solstice moon, were currently grouped by the Sarsen stones. Year after year, the same faceless shapes appeared on Maiden Castle, at Maumbury Rings and here in the ancient circle. They performed their chants and silently disappeared again from whence they had come. When they had gone, the hare hopped over to the circle on the lawn that he knew to be a darker shade of green than the rest. Bending his neck back slightly, he stared up at the moon to pay his own homage.

His evening’s work over, he made his way down the grassy path on which were strewn a number of carnation heads. The hare ignored this free meal, wryly remembering the last time he’d been greedy enough to help himself. As he turned towards Came Woods, a late breeze lifted a scrap of newspaper onto the path. The date was clearly visible – 21^st June 2013. The hare took no notice being, as he was, unable to read.

(picture by Catherine Hyde)

Dealey Plaza: the view from the sticks

Posted on November 18, 2013 by readersaurus

We must have had a light outside the back door because it was a dark November evening when I was playing two-ball against the bathroom wall as Lorna arrived home from Girl Guides. Thump, thump, thump. Lorna was my friend from next door.

I have what used to be referred to as ‘a late birthday’. It means that, being born on 1^st September, I missed the cut-off point at school and was, therefore, the oldest in the class. It also meant that Lorna got to join the Guides a year before me.

‘President Kennedy’s dead’, I informed her. Thump, thump, thump.

‘I know’, she replied.

‘What did you do at Guides’ asked the eager Brownie–but-Guide-in-waiting?

So, there it is: possibly the most significant historical moment in my lifetime cast aside in three words in order to get to the nitty-gritty.

‘Everyone remembers what they were doing when the news of Kennedy’s death came through’ – note the ‘came through’; none of this instant, in your face, reportage in olden times. Well, of course we remember. The trouble is that we weren’t doing anything life-changing: I doubt younger readers, or my follower in the colonies, even know what two-ball is: thump, thump, thump.

I was watching a black and white television with my mum & dad. Like the rest of England, we were waiting for Harry Worth: a comedy programme which, given that I was able to watch it, must have been innocuous beyond belief. I wasn’t even allowed to watch Z Cars for God’s sake! The BBC still went ahead with the transmission but learned a salutary lesson. When Diana was murdered, my then seven years old son, consigned to his own early morning amusement via the TV, complained ‘there’s nothing on except men talking’.

I was eleven in 1963. Being eleven in those days was positively Dickension compared with being eleven now. My ten years old granddaughter is older than I was. Be fair: my ten years old granddaughter is older than I am now! Back in the day, a person of eleven years was still a child. We weren’t expected to be mature: well-read, yes; analytical, no; and able to hold an opinion –certainly not. So, my inability to comprehend my parents’ confusion at the news resulted in banishment to the wintery periphery.

‘What did you do at Guides?’ – thump, thump, thump.

Fifty years on and several incarnations later I’ve been trying to make up for my inability to give some meaningful explanation for my lack of socio-political comprehension in the sticks of the sixties. It seems inexcusable that I have clearer memories of the winter that followed – the joyous English snowfall on Boxing Day that continued into an Arctic March without respite. So, I’ve read all the books and watched all the films and documentaries and listened to clues in the music – ‘nothing hiding behind this picket fence’.

Without doubt, my favourite is the Oliver Stone version of accounts. But now, as the 50^th anniversary approaches, we are bombarded by – well, by what? An updated historical account for the younger folk? More urban myths? Bring them on. Let’s have Peter Fonda explaining the meaning of life – or in this case, death.

The other night, anxious not to miss an iota of the view from the land of Hindsight, I watched a so-called documentary that claimed Kennedy died as a result of the accidental firing of a rifle by a secret service man. Thump, thump, thump – with the emphasis on the third smoke-scented thump. What is this? Some ruse to stop a new generation questioning events? Well, I’m sorry but after fifty years it’s a bit weak. Is that your best shot (in a manner of speaking)? Give us the truth – we can take it now we’re all grown up. After all, we are the generation who believe nothing and trust no-one; which is marginally better than the generation who can’t be arsed.

I hate cats!

Posted on October 22, 2013 by readersaurus

Last week was not a good week for a number of reasons so I went up to Wiltshire for a bit of R & R. Things don’t change much in Wiltshire. For a start, they’ve had the same cat for 24 years. Not being a big feline fan, I look at it and surmise there’s every probability that it died in 2003 but no-one’s yet noticed. Despite being surrounded by a wall of protective cushions, the deaf zombie cat silently lunges at me on the sofa and everyone (except me) laughs.

It’s a daytime elective mute. In the night, it tries out its voice-box to see if it’s still working. All night long mew, screech, cry, wail with the sole intention of denying anyone sleep regardless of how much alcohol has been downed in the Black Horse. And all night long, instead of ignoring it, Man of the House is up and down like a fiddler’s elbow. He lets the cat in; he lets the cat out. Bang and crash go the rain-sodden doors. He feeds the cat with the expensive contents of tiny pouches of mashed smoked salmon or pureed venison. He gives it cream; not the leftover cream for there was no accompanying dessert for us mere mortals, but the double cream that has been especially purchased for ‘the old lady’. He hangs out of the adjacent bedroom window and says with irrational surprise ‘oh, there you are’. And all the time he talks to it. I don’t live there and I know it’s deaf. Why would you talk to a deaf cat?

I talked to the cat when, opening the bedroom door at 3am to go to the loo, the bloody thing rushed into my sanctuary. At 6am, when the entire household had regrouped in the sitting room with cups of tea, and when the cat was nowhere to be seen or heard, Man of the House said ‘I heard you telling my cat to F*** Off’. And? Lady of the House, known for her envious ability to sleep through Armageddon, was not a happy bunny having had to arise from her Rip Van Winkle repose, don furry Matalan-style dressing gown, and remove ancient feline from underneath guest bed with a handy stick. I got the distinct impression that the guest was the nuisance and not the cat.

and some snippets from the rest of my week…

… A student complained to me: ‘I was thinking of chucking it all in and going on a Buddhist retreat to find intellectual stimulation. Then I went to the finance office and they told me it would cost three thousand pounds to leave. I can’t afford intellectual stimulation at that price.’

I mentioned I couldn’t sleep because I can hear a strange noise at night. I asked my neighbour if he could hear it too. He said he only hears bells. He’s got tinnitus. The other neighbour says she can’t sleep because she can hear a high pitched whining noise. Is tinnitus infectious?

Freshly showered and wrapped in towels in the changing room, we gather together to admire the photos of her wedding outfit. Then we rebuild ourselves for another day in paradise.

Having had our facials, courtesy of the ubiquitous Poles, my friend is told her skin is good. I am advised I need a prolonged treatment of something that is 40% acid. After that, she politely says, we could start on the wrinkles.

Having once spent a year in France, it’s inferred that I’ve let the quiz team down because I don’t know which are the highest scoring letters in French Scrabble. Having once spent a year in France, and several other sojourns in said country, I have yet to see a French person playing Scrabble.

Desolation

Posted on October 13, 2013 by readersaurus

aran 056

In 2011 I was forced to head off for more days than could be deemed conceivably comfortable in the direction of Western Ireland. Actually, I mean Aran: somewhere between Ireland and Ameriky for want of a geographical context but, in truth, nowhere that civilised man or woman might be familiar with; nor want to be. Weeks before I left I’d done the research which had lead me to write “following a trail of men who, in turn, have followed each other, appears fraught with difficulties …the wilderness boys enjoy the apparent catharsis achieved by sailing the roughest of seas in a boat the size of a thimble. Even the ferry trip from Galway will not suffice unless we’ve been blown along in a force ten, accompanied by more cormorants than even Ackroyd could cope with’. It didn’t bode well.

I look at my notebook tonight and understand the importance of writing what you see and what you feel at the time. However, it’s now two years later that I choose to revisit the words I wrote and the pictures I captured. Last evening, I finally saw the 1934 film, Man of Aran, which was accompanied by the soundtrack performed by a band called British Sea Power. Little seemed to have changed in the last 80 years – certainly not in terms of topography. It was as alienating – no, as god-awful – as ever. In my journal, on 8 May, I write ‘today’s biscuit is a Wagon Wheel’ as if this small comfort will recompense for the constant trudging around the sea-battered rocks that the day holds in store.

Avoiding the path trodden uphill by the others, by virtue of the fact that it is uphill, I find the seagull protecting memorial and its matching cemetery and write:

‘It takes me some minutes to work out in which direction the seagull is pointing. Suddenly, I realise that, of course, the bird is not looking out to sea but to Kilronnan; to home. And I hear the roll call of the dead; and the accompanying pragmatism: ‘well, those that pass cannot feed those that remain’.

And as I am weeping – and I did weep for all sorts of reasons – around the corner comes a vision of unexpected joy: it’s lovely Laura on a bicycle she has rented and we travel together until we reach Watership Down

Desperation and desolation – but inspiration in listening to the music and watching this cinematographic gem; even if you’re in the relative safety of the theatre at the end of Bournemouth Pier. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0RAdfrQwvo

The rabbit’s suitcase

Posted on October 7, 2013 by readersaurus

What a lovely weekend for animal related shopping. Saturday saw your author off to the vintage market, accompanied by newly found soul mate (nfsm) whose aim was to buy a rabbit’s suitcase. Of course, ‘vintage’ is a rather overworked term these days, seemingly applied to anything that’s more than a week old. It doesn’t even have to be second-hand as long as it’s a re-worked item made from a pre-loved item – cuff links from typewriter keys, aprons from old embroidered tea cloths and suchlike.

NFSM has a bit of form: the other day she asked whether it would be acceptable to wear her fox fur collar. I said I couldn’t see a problem as long as she didn’t mind folk spitting at her. ‘That’s what my mum said’, she replied. Well, foxes are ten a penny and chances are that if there’s enough of it left to make a collar then it wasn’t ravaged by a pack of beagles. Just shot.

The thing is that, as long as it’s REAL vintage – massacred before we developed a collective conscience – it’s ok to sell and buy: for example, a chess set made from ivory before we started worrying about the lack of elephants on the planet. There’s a possible dilemma here, especially as those items killed before CC tend to be more expensive, but I can live with it. Well, I can live with others living with it. And the crocodile skin handbag that nfsm honed in on was a thing of beauty – which is more than can be said for a crocodile. Matching purses were a non-starter: too small and demanding a quick history lesson from aged author: they didn’t have loyalty cards or credit cards in those days – they didn’t have credit! Ergo – no debts.

NFSM then bought a mink hat for £18. A bargain, but will show up the fox fur for the lesser being it remains. As for the rabbit’s suitcase – a lost cause. Old trunks and suitcases are all the rage now. You can purchase a dirty old specimen for anything up to a hundred pounds but there are a few bargains still to be had at boot sales. These vintage market folk are a canny bunch: by virtue of the ‘vintage’ label anything can be usefully exploited. I know what she was after: a small battered brown affair with metal clips, the like of which seems not to exist unless you want to pay fifty quid on eBay.

An explanation might be needed here. We’re talking about the school rabbit. The one that the children, in turns, take home at weekends and during holidays. She wants the rabbit to be accompanied by a suitcase in which its belongings can be stored: toothbrush, flannel, razor, shampoo and so on. Common sense really: do you want to go away without your toiletries? Think Paddington.

suitcase

On a gloriously sunny Sunday I headed off alone to a local field in which a boot sale was being held; a boot sale so enormous that even this enthusiastic aficionado was overcome. I was shopping for others: aged friend who has recently become a self-taught expert in decoupage – outstanding in the hare field – had sent me on a mission to look for small wooden boxes. And, of course, I was still looking for the rabbit’s suitcase.

Generally, at these events, I give the toy stalls a miss – with the recent exception of the successful purchase of a Thomas the Tank Engine clock. I give them a miss because I can’t face bartering with children. The parents don’t care – they just want shot of the stuff; the Midwich Cuckoos insist on giving you chapter and verse regarding the provenance of the item, have researched the current price on the internet and stare at you with unforgiving black eyes if you dare to suggest a penny below the asking price. They intrude on their parents’ selling capabilities: a deal has seemingly been agreed when comes an under-developed voice: ‘you’re not going to let him have the bread-maker for that price, are you?’

With some trepidation I perused the toys: ‘do you have a suitcase suitable for a rabbit please?’ There are, apparently, some questions to which a simple ‘no’ is an inadequate answer.

I returned home with many purchases, none of which included a rabbit’s suitcase. At the end of the alley I met Dave and congratulated him on the weather. ‘I’ve been looking for a rabbit’s suitcase’, I told him. He didn’t bat an eyelid: ‘my wife collects Cindy dolls’, he informed me; ‘but I don’t think she does accessories. Cindy travels light’.

National Poetry Day

Posted on October 3, 2013 by readersaurus

Fern Hill

By Dylan Thomas 1914–1953

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry,

Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

Trail with daisies and barley

Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

In the sun that is young once only,

Time let me play and be

Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

And the sabbath rang slowly

In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air

And playing, lovely and watery

And fire green as grass.

And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars

Flying with the ricks, and the horses

Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

In the sun born over and over,

I ran my heedless ways,

My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

Before the children green and golden

Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

In the moon that is always rising,

Nor that riding to sleep

I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea

I see Brennan’s skunk was in the Echo last night…

Posted on September 17, 2013 by readersaurus

…well, when I say in the Echo, I mean a picture of Brennan’s skunk was in the paper; as opposed to the actual creature which, as anyone who lives near me in the Twilight Zone knows, is missing in action. If Malita wasn’t missing, it’s unlikely that she’d be having her 15 minutes of fame in the local press as skunks are twenty to the dozen. Pardon?

Perhaps not necessarily in Dorset but Malita has come all the way from Gloucester which explains things. Pardon?

A couple of weeks ago I had a birthday party. As the weather was still good, we were enjoying our lemonade in the garden which meant that other folk could hear us. Being largely comprised of nouveaux pensioners, this was not a rowdy do. More sort of boisterous. Anyway, when the doorbell rang, I assumed it was a late guest but – no- it was Brennan and son wanting to know if anyone had seen his skunk. The son had brought along a soft toy skunk as a visual aid for any of the oldies suffering from terminal confusion. Being a sociable type, I asked them in for a drink wherein, it transpired, the skunk had disappeared ten days previously. Some of the more cynical of those present rather unkindly voiced the opinion that this was the best gate-crash ever. Oh, you non-believers.

Malita lives in a Wendy house in next door’s front garden. Lived. I didn’t know her name was Malita but then I didn’t know his name was Brennan. Be fair, they’ve only lived there for four years. In the Twilight Zone – lately known as the Valley of the Shadow of Death owing to the recent proliferation of inhabitants who are themselves late – it’s sensible not to mix too readily. Anyway, it turns out that Brennan and I share a distaste for leaflet distributors as it was one of this species who, having deposited 400 Lidl adverts and 106 pizza menus through his vulnerable letter box, left the garden gate open.

Dorset Wildlife Trust are on the case as they’re anxious to save local lizards, frogs and birds from an untimely demise at the claws of the roaming skunk. I don’t think they’ve got much to worry about – Brennan’s little boy told me the other day that Malita had been spotted emerging from someone’s cat-flap wiping the remains of Felix from her mouth with a handy napkin. Onwards and upwards then.

Max Gate

Posted on September 15, 2013 by readersaurus

It’s Sunday morning and we’ve been granted unexpected respite: just the two of us, eager to make the most of the day before the promised deluge arrives. We’re off to see Max Gate and eldest daughter is on a mission. Devoid of small child whose well-being is paramount, she drives down the Dorchester by-pass like a woman possessed. Mother’s well-being is not a consideration but all my children turn French once behind the wheel. Appraising the slowness of life on the other side of the Channel, I once remarked to a native that those originating in La France do nothing with speed except when they are in their cars. ‘Meh bah’, she replied, ‘you’ve clearly never had sex with a Frenchman’.

I try to disguise my clenched knuckles as Lewis Hamilton points out various examples of natural history which we must simultaneously examine and avoid:

‘What’s the matter’, she asks as we lurch across the dual carriageway? ‘I was just looking at that dead badger’.

‘Never mind, you’ll get your chance on the way back’, I don’t say. Another lurch back into the outside lane:

‘Did you see that’, asks Lewis Hamilton? ‘A deer. With antlers’. No, I had my eyes shut. Oh for a summer’s day when sunglasses can shade one’s fear.

‘I expect it’ll be dead when we return’, she says happily.

The signpost for Higher Bockhampton is upon us with little warning. No worries: with no time to indicate, Lewis Hamilton screeches round a bend and suddenly, in one of those existential moments, it’s as if the highway never existed; although Lewis hasn’t noticed that we’re driving down the smallest, narrowest country lane that deepest Dorset has to offer. We arrive at – Hardy’s birthplace: probably very quaint and interesting and a good place to make a jigsaw from, but Max Gate is not here and I have made an inexcusable error; which, of course, is excused without fuss. We choose a couple in the car park who look as if they might know Max Gate and ask for directions. The good news is that they know Max Gate. The bad news is that they’re about as useful at giving directions as a chocolate teapot.

We follow their instructions, go through Dorchester, are in danger of landing up in shocking Poundbury, try to get new directions from a closed pub, do a U turn, head back down the hill and screech to a halt by what we judge to be a potentially informative pedestrian. Potentially informative pedestrian, who is in charge of an unpleasant looking poodle, turns out to be the maddest woman in Dorchester. She has no knowledge of travelling in cars, refuses to submit to the idea that she may not be of any help and speaks at the rate of five thousand words a minute. During her discourse, I notice a runaway shopping bag on wheels making an escape down the hill. ‘Oh, look’, I comment. Runaway shopping bag on wheels, it transpires, belongs to potentially informative pedestrian who legs it in the direction of Dorchester prison. I think Lewis Hamilton is rather rude for laughing at this.

Back in town, Lewis Hamilton decides to engage her sat nav. I am more than a little surprised that this has not been introduced previously but, as we’ve swerved to an unanticipated halt, I take the opportunity to ask another passing pedestrian if he knows Max Gate. He begins to give directions but is interrupted by Lewis who can only find the box for the sat nav and not the contents. The new helpful pedestrian sticks his wires back into his ears and moves on. We, meanwhile, find ourselves back on the road to Dorchester that we began on and demand instructions from a bloke who claims to know Max Gate. By this time, I’m sure Max Gate will fall far short of what we expected.

I should really have written a piece about how Max Gate, the home of Thomas Hardy, is worth all the hassle of finding it. To say I’m not a fan of the National Trust would be an understatement: they take our heritage and turn it into something without soul. Once inside, they sell things that no-one wants at extortionate prices. Well, as far as I can see, someone with the same impression as your author has managed to secure a position of importance at Max Gate. It’s fantastic. You can sit on the furniture, spend as long as you want reading about Hardy, reading work by Hardy, buying genuine second hand works by Hardy, have free tea and coffee and explore this lovely warm place at your will. You can wander in the delightful gardens and you can congratulate the ladies on the door who are as far from the usual National Trust volunteers as it’s possible to be.

We arrived home, before the floods, really happy. ‘That only took 17 minutes’, says Lewis Hamilton,

Yes, I noticed.

Men with tears in their eyes

Posted on August 27, 2013 by readersaurus

badger It’s the so-called silly season and the Today programme, yet again, was virtually running on empty this morning; alternating between only two main topics neither of which, however, was silly. The two topics had one thing in common: the extermination of the innocent.

Topic one concerned the annihilation and serious injury of hundreds of people in Syria by chemical means at the behest of their government. Topic two concerned the annihilation of hundreds of badgers in the UK by experienced marksmen (and one presumes markswomen), at the behest of our government.

Yesterday, when the Today programme also attended to the extermination outside Damascus, William Hague came into the studio to speak with some passion on the possibility of reprisal by governments in the West. I could, with my arm twisted high enough behind my back, possibly admit to being a closet William Hague fan. I might not necessarily agree with his politics but I think he speaks well. However, to mention William Hague and passion in the same breath might be classed as a throwback to the theatre of the absurd. Nonetheless, I detected the note of suppressed anger.

Today, it was the turn of the Americans. Those that we have come to regard as top of the pops in the warmongers’ chart, devoid of any passion in the sense of compassion, are suddenly crying. We learn that Obama – another of those that can talk the talk – is overcome with revulsion and grief whilst John Kerry is unable to wipe the pictures of this ‘moral obscenity’ from his mind. Call me a cynic but – well, just call me a cynic.

On the other hand, there is Owen Paterson, another credible sounding chap, especially when it comes to badgers. Badgers were elevated to the prime 8.10 slot on the Today programme this morning which either shows the national importance of the cull that commenced last night or the lack of any news of comparative interest. Paterson was potentially in a good place: the earlier speaker representing the Badger Defence League had been somewhat brutalised by the normally pleasant Evan Davis, firstly for refusing to give her name.

Evan: ‘we have a representative of the government coming in later and he’s given us HIS name.’ That’s a bit weak Evan. The other mistake the Badger Defence League person made, according to Evan the Terrier, was to step outside his own democratic principles:

Evan: ‘it’s alright to protest you know but you are intending to INTERFERE. You don’t mind if we kill 2.5 million battery chickens every day. What’s so special about badgers?’

The Badger Defence League person quietly pointed out she was a vegan and DID mind that 2.5 million battery chickens were killed every day. Evan had had enough:

‘Well thank-you Lynn’, he said in such a tone to infer that he didn’t even believe her first name. I didn’t hear you mention the word ‘interfere’ when you questioned William yesterday Evan. Still, not quite the same I suppose.

At 8.10am Evan the Terrier sprung his attack on Owen Paterson. Owen had all his factually based answers ready even though they bore little relation to the questions asked. Or should I say ‘question’? The Terrier went on and on about the measurement of effectiveness. Why didn’t you read the government’s guide to best practice when killing badgers beforehand Evan? Why didn’t you ask him about the treacle covered peanuts that are used as bait to encourage groups of badgers to the execution point Evan? Why can’t you see that the destruction of 70% of the badger population IS a measure of effectiveness? And do I care? But, no: on and on and on to the point of inanity. Or was that insanity?

Evan: Minister, what IS the price of a badger’s life?’ (as opposed to a Syrian child’s life, Evan?)

Owen (nearly in tears): There ISN’T a price on a badger’s life. I bet I’m the only one of your listeners who had badgers as pets when I was a child!’ (Why did you Owen? Where were the badger parents?)

Silence from Evan.

Dear God. Surely there’s some news elsewhere that’s worthy of all these tears.

Donald and the Weasels

What can it mean?