Pigeon Pie

There are lots of reasons why pigeons are unpopular creatures in cities, and over the years there have been lots of methods employed in attempts to limit their population, or at least to keep them at bay. Most of these have been banned through the untiring efforts of various animal liberation groups, apparently oblivious to the fact that not all humans welcome the consequences of the unchecked lofts.

The current trend in avian disuasion seems to involve covering every square inch of horizontal surface with a sort of continuous stainless steel barbecue fork, which is apparently intended to deter all but the most determined fakir among the flock.

I am not sure that they the solution doesn't have a more deleterious visual impact on some buildings than the patina created by the remnants of a thousand pigeon's breakfasts.

Perhaps some would call it art, whatever the case, the pigeons seem to have a work-around.

Surely the problem could be solved with some clever marketing of that old favourite of the gastronomes, the Pigeon Pie.

Just tell the punters that pigeons taste like Cat.

Ink or Swim (a stolen witty headline from the internet!)

A 45-foot-long polystyrene sculpture called The Swimmer ended a weeklong stay in London's St Mary's Gate, Greenwich Park last week, and was shipped off to Chiswick. The piece had been exhibited in Greenwich Park to draw attention to, or promote if you like, the WOW reality series London Ink, which follows the adventures in the skin trade of Louis Malloy, the inker who put "the world's most famous tattoo" on David Beckham's back, and his team of artists. London Ink airs Sundays at 10PM on Discovery Real Time in the UK.

And we just happened to stumble across this thing on its first day in the park, blissfully unaware of its intended transience.

I struggled to see the promotional value of the piece I must admit. In itself it was mildly amusing, and very well executed although it needed around the clock attention from two security guards, who set up camp in their car for the duration. This fact in itself speaks volumes for its durability as a piece of public art, or perhaps it speaks volumes of the target audience for the programme.

If it hadn't had a plaque explaining its purpose, we would never have known of its apparent significance in the world, but there again we don't actually recall ever seeing David Beckham's back either.

David Beckham's back.

We didn't even know he'd been away.

Leaping Salmon

Julian mentioned the little village of Llwwddfyrddin in his blog the other day, and while he may well have deliberately miss-spelled the name in the interests of protecting the innocent, he may also have hinted at what a hotbed of interesting, if somewhat trivial information we found the place to be. Information that seemed irrelevant, but only in the sense that at the time we had little use for the so many solutions to the mysteries of life which presented themselves to us in one night and a rather short morning.

While we did wonder at the enthusiasm displayed by the lady who was an expert in curing cats of their ills using nought but fresh cut flowers, and the young American cow doctor who had come to study holistic bovine treatments in the backblocks of Wales, my imagination was captured entirely by the certain knowledge that 'they' have found a gene (or was it a hormone?) in Salmon leaping up waterfalls, which is apparently identical to one found in breast-feeding humans.

This remarkable slice of information positioned yet another piece on the board that is the jigsaw of my life. At last I have an explanation for the head-sized holes in the ceiling, and all the banging that occurred in the shower recess of our home for a few weeks after the birth of each of our children.

It's not as though my evening was ruined by the thought of Richard Attenborough talking to camera just out of sight, in front of a fibreglass shower recess with a brood of lactating mothers taking turns in leaping over the shower rose, far from it, but none of us ordered dessert.

His first trip to the beach!

We were in Barcelona concentrating on having our camera and passports stolen on his first birthday, so we weren't going to miss his first day at the beach for anything!

He didn't disappoint. From the minute he saw the surf he stood on the beach squealing with excitement, walked with us all through some of the deeper pools, and eventually found a small puddle just big enough to sit in, and would still be there there splashing and scraping in the sand if we hadn't taken him home.

More pics (as well as a couple of birthday shots) as usual at flickr, just click the links.

Nuffink Practical

After four weeks of hanging round, we thought we'd come to know the place reasonably well, if not quite intimately. So when it came to buying a few simple household items it should have been a doddle.

After an hour or so of searching the likely shops, we finally stopped at the bookshop and enquired if there was anywhere at all nearby that was likely to sell blank CD's.

The delightfully groomed young lady adopted her most purposeful expression, carefully composing her reply so as not to be misunderstood by the foreigner who stood opposite:

"Nar", she replied,

"You won't get nuffink practical in the shops in Greenwich."

As a person who could learn to enjoy sleeping in red pirate long-johns (for girls) complete with a thing called a "pirate cape", I beg to differ.

Chipping Sodbury

When we saw Chipping Sodbury on the map, we knew our day's travel would have to end there, just because of the way the name just sort of rolled off one's tongue: Chipping Sodbury.

If one pronounces it quickly it sounds like "Chipping Sodbury", which remarkably is exactly the same as when one pronounces it slowly.

It could be said that we aren't all that adept when it comes to planning ahead. In fact it could be said we don't plan ahead at all, so when we are on the road, finding accommodation becomes a version of the old car game "Spotto", with the stakes becoming ever so slightly more desperate as the evening light begins to fade, and bedtime approaches for respectable inn-keepers.

As it turned out, there was a certain lack of salubriousness in the available rooms in Chipping Sodbury, so we continued down the road a few miles until we stumbled across a charming complex which, we would have agreed was perfectly described in its publicity brochure, had we had the benefit of it at the time:

Best Western; The Compass Inn is a medium sized, family run hotel set in the beautiful South Cotswolds. An 18th century coaching inn with modern accommodation set in 6 acres of beautifully kept grounds and gardens. Just a minutes drive from junction 18 of the M4.

It looked terrific, so Jo and Jules went in to enquire.

"Ninety-eight each" replied the receptionist when asked if there were any rooms available that night.

Jo, a little travel weary, perhaps even disoriented by a long day in which we had travelled a total distance of something near 30 miles, retorted incredulously: "POUNDS???" Even now, we have no idea what sort of currency she was expecting, nor whether for an instant she thought that this particular establishment was quoting in Bolivian Bobs, or even that they were prepared to trade in Chestnut Conkers.

"I'll phone the B&B down the road for you" came the firm and immediate reply.

And so it came to pass that we had a splendid night at Chestnut Farm Tormarton, a small, family run, farm and B&B set in the beautiful South Cotswolds. An 18th century farm house with modern accommodation set in a few acres of beautifully kept grounds and gardens. Just a minutes drive from junction 18 of the M4, compleat with traditional English breakfast, and all for fifty.

"POUNDS???"

Indeed!

Leaving Greenwich

It was our last day in Greenwich, and with an awkward three hours to kill we decided to take one last walk, find some food, and do one or two last minute shopping things.

The ground in the park and on most streets was covered ankle deep in a golden brown covering the likes of which we had never seen before (except in movies of course). The Poms called them "Autumn Leaves".

When I said "most" streets, I meant EVERY street, except for the Part of Romney Road which runs in front of the Maritime Museum and the Queen's House, which had been cleaned to within an inch of its life by a man who was clearly on a mission.

"You seem to be on some sort of mission" we called cheerily as we passed.

It must have been smoko time, because for the next fifteen minutes (at least) we were regailed by tales of how difficult life is.

His responsibility "you see", is for the whole block from King Willam Walk to Park Row, and because "they" don't have the funds, "them on the other side of the fence; the history people", they use leaf blowers to pile all the leaves up near the fence when the Southerly winds are coming, so all the leaves blow out onto his patch of footpath. He'd been there since "5 o'clock this morning".

He had another three months of work he reckoned before it was all over, then it'd be nearly spring "and the tourists'll be back". We didn't ask him how he disposed of the tourists, but presumed he'd have to use something larger than the pillow-case sized plastic bags he used for the leaves.

Then again he had one of those fantastic twig brooms favoured as flying machines by all self-respecting witches. Maybe...... no he couldn't possibly........