I am happy to report that your correspondent is in considerably better humour than was the case on Friday. This despite being surrounded by grumpiness. I guess Covid and its restrictions are taking their toll.
Enjoying a lovely Sunday afternoon cycle ride past Eastbourne pier I again witnessed the spectacular sight of a murmuration of starlings swirling around the golden dome at the end of the pier. This was a much smaller murmuration than the one I saw last week, when there were thousands of birds swooping and swerving in a dark mass that was constantly changing shape like a shapeshifter or an amoeba on steroids. I watched the formation soar and plummet around the dome for half an hour at least. Who knows how long it was there for? Every time the giant black “jelly” headed towards town it dramatically changed direction, throwing off a squadron of fifty or so birds that followed their leader in a straight line into the centre of Eastbourne. Each time it happened the cast-offs took exactly the same route, disappearing over the rooftops presumably heading for Starbucks. After satisfactorily refuelling and fully nourished they would return in their individual squadrons and rejoin the main formation, which in itself was fascinating to watch. There were so many starlings flying in very close proximity and constantly changing direction that it’s hard to imagine how there were no mid-air collisions. There were far too many airmisses to report to air traffic control. (I wonder what a Starling Mayday sounds like?) Amazingly, not one bird fluttered to the waiting waves having suffered wing fatigue or worse.
If Starbucks is the natural home for starlings, I’ve realised how Ramsgate acquired its name, thanks to a piece on Farming Today early on Radio 4. Apparently the bulk of Britain’s sheep exports to the continent go through the Kent port. The activists are up in arms because of the dreadful conditions the animals suffer en route to a Parisian gourmet’s dinner plate. No doubt things will only get worse in the New Year, when a combination of tariffs and euro-bureaucracy delay their departure by a day or three. There’ll be a lot more bleating then.
Those of a slightly nervous disposition might want to gloss over the next paragraph. Something happened to me today that I have never experienced before, but have often heard tales of pro-golfers suffering a similar affliction whilst playing in a tournament. I had journeyed across Sussex almost into Kent to visit a specialist clinic where I was having blood drawn to be sent to Germany. It grieves me to report that the Germans are streets ahead of us when it comes to analysing possible diseases and their causes, that frequently leave the NHS baffled. Anyway, I digress. Having completed the leech work, I had to sit around for half an hour to allow the blood to settle in the sample tubes. At this point, in the middle of deserted countryside, I realised my revolting guts were on the verge of serious revolution. This wasn’t going to wait forty five minutes for me to get home. I’m normally quite choosey about where I park my bottom, but now I had no choice. Fortunately I found a convenient lay-by with woods close at hand and thanks to a packet of tissues lurking in the glove compartment I was able to complete a hygienic evacuation without the hint of damage to clothing. Phew! Unlike one golfer of my acquaintance who was caught seriously short on the 10th (after a strong curry the night before) and was unable to avoid a messy soiling. He had to abandon everything below his waist in the woods and carried on playing in waterproof over-trousers…..which on a steamy hot summer’s day can get rather sweaty, thereby creating a further chafing problem. What a nightmare!
ADayInTheStrifeOf 