Last night I looked out the window and saw a cat perched on a wall across the street, with a fox crouched below. I had already seen this cat facing off with a dog earlier in the day, and she was taking bold swipes at the fox with her claws. But the fox, unfazed, began trying to bite back. This clearly was not going to end well.
I ran outside and shooed the fox away. The cat had hidden under a parked car when I arrived on the scene, but when I called her, she jumped back onto the wall and began purring. I was stroking her when I realised that the fox had returned and was hanging around just a few feet away from me. No matter what I did, I couldn't get it to run away for more than a few minutes.
I decided the best thing to do was to try to find the cat's owner. She had a collar and bell but no tag, so I picked her up -- amazingly, she didn't protest -- and began making the rounds of nearby houses. And the fox trailed behind us the whole time.
The neighbours were all very nice, and several of them said they'd seen the cat around, but no one knew who she belonged to. The cat, meanwhile, was eager to get down and chase the fox out of "her" territory. Not a good idea, I thought.
Finally a woman suggested that the cat could spend the night in her enclosed garden, which had, she thought, walls too high for the fox to climb. Despite the cat's previous bravado, she did scurry in very quickly when the woman opened the door.
Chris had come outside in the meantime, and once the cat was out of reach, he found that the fox followed him down the street. So we tried to lead it as far away as possible, then, when it was distracted, went back home.
I'd never known a fox to be so bold and persistent. They usually run away as soon as a person appears. I can only assume the cold winter has left them starving and desperate. A good reason for people to keep their pets indoors.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Evolving English at the British Library
I'd been so put off by the dumbed-down adverts for the British Library's latest exhibition that I almost didn't go. The captions at the entrance made me worry that my misgivings had been justified: "Did you know that English began over 1600 years ago among the Germanic tribes of Britain?" Surely anyone who didn't know that wouldn't have been in school long enough to be able to read the sign.
But things quickly improved when we got to the actual exhibits, which ranged from the oldest runes found in Britain to examples of modern text messages. I was particularly interested in a book of Latin psalms that, at some point in the 9th century, had been embellished with an interlinear translation into Old English. Who had owned this book, I wondered? Were there educated people back then who were able to read one language but not the other? Unfortunately, the labels didn't elaborate on this further.
Other treasures in the exhibition were the manuscripts of Beowulf and Sumer Is Icumen In; Tyndale's and Wycliffe's New Testaments; Roger Williams's Narragansett dictionary; The Voyage of Governor Phillip to Botany Bay, open to a charming, if slightly inaccurate, illustration of a "kangooroo"; Hobson-Jobson; and the notecards used to compile the Oxford English Dictionary. A copy of Hooke's Micrographia lay open next to the journal article reporting the cloning of Dolly the Sheep, showing how scientific writing has changed over the years. The development of specialised jargon was illustrated with glossaries for medieval cooks, 15th-century masons, 17th-century sailors and 18th-century miners, while regional linguistic variations in the UK were demonstrated mainly with samples of dialect literature from the 19th century. There was also a section on swearing and sexual language, but I couldn't get near it because of the crowd.
The exhibition seemed to lose focus at times, displaying Victorian circus posters and clips from dreary '70s comedies without fully explaining why they were relevant. But there is certainly enough there to make it worth a visit, particularly since admission is free.
But things quickly improved when we got to the actual exhibits, which ranged from the oldest runes found in Britain to examples of modern text messages. I was particularly interested in a book of Latin psalms that, at some point in the 9th century, had been embellished with an interlinear translation into Old English. Who had owned this book, I wondered? Were there educated people back then who were able to read one language but not the other? Unfortunately, the labels didn't elaborate on this further.
Other treasures in the exhibition were the manuscripts of Beowulf and Sumer Is Icumen In; Tyndale's and Wycliffe's New Testaments; Roger Williams's Narragansett dictionary; The Voyage of Governor Phillip to Botany Bay, open to a charming, if slightly inaccurate, illustration of a "kangooroo"; Hobson-Jobson; and the notecards used to compile the Oxford English Dictionary. A copy of Hooke's Micrographia lay open next to the journal article reporting the cloning of Dolly the Sheep, showing how scientific writing has changed over the years. The development of specialised jargon was illustrated with glossaries for medieval cooks, 15th-century masons, 17th-century sailors and 18th-century miners, while regional linguistic variations in the UK were demonstrated mainly with samples of dialect literature from the 19th century. There was also a section on swearing and sexual language, but I couldn't get near it because of the crowd.
The exhibition seemed to lose focus at times, displaying Victorian circus posters and clips from dreary '70s comedies without fully explaining why they were relevant. But there is certainly enough there to make it worth a visit, particularly since admission is free.
Monday, 20 December 2010
Spaghetti with lentil sauce
We'll be getting our groceries delivered later than usual this week, thanks to Christmas demand and the weather, so for the past couple of days I've been making up dishes from what I can find in the freezer and store cupboard. This recipe, while not fancy, turned out to be quite tasty, so I thought I'd share it.
Ingredients
Olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 large cloves garlic, minced
3 carrots, peeled* and chopped
200g green lentils
400 ml water
400g tinned tomatoes
3 tablespoons tomato puree (paste)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
Salt and pepper to taste
500g whole-wheat spaghetti
Fry the onion, garlic and carrots in the oil until the onions are translucent. Add the lentils and turn them over to coat with the oil. Add all the other ingredients (except the spaghetti, of course), bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and cover. Let the sauce simmer, stirring it from time to time, while you boil a pot of water and cook the spaghetti. At the end most of the liquid should be absorbed and the lentils should be tender; you'll need to stir it more often toward the end of cooking to keep it from sticking. Toss the sauce with the pasta and serve at once.**
* I used to think this instruction was unnecessary, but apparently some people don't peel them.
** This is probably unnecessary too, but recipes always end like that.
Ingredients
Olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 large cloves garlic, minced
3 carrots, peeled* and chopped
200g green lentils
400 ml water
400g tinned tomatoes
3 tablespoons tomato puree (paste)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
Salt and pepper to taste
500g whole-wheat spaghetti
Fry the onion, garlic and carrots in the oil until the onions are translucent. Add the lentils and turn them over to coat with the oil. Add all the other ingredients (except the spaghetti, of course), bring to a boil, reduce heat to low and cover. Let the sauce simmer, stirring it from time to time, while you boil a pot of water and cook the spaghetti. At the end most of the liquid should be absorbed and the lentils should be tender; you'll need to stir it more often toward the end of cooking to keep it from sticking. Toss the sauce with the pasta and serve at once.**
* I used to think this instruction was unnecessary, but apparently some people don't peel them.
** This is probably unnecessary too, but recipes always end like that.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
All others doth deface
Last week a doctor told me that he never tries to wean patients off antidepressants during the Christmas season, because it is doomed to fail. I remembered his words later that day, when I took a shortcut through the Tube station and saw the board giving news about delays. Not one, but two lines were suspended because of -- as TFL's official phrase genteelly puts it -- "a person under a train". I'd never heard of two people jumping on the same afternoon before. When I went into a department store shortly afterward, it seemed appropriate -- in a darkly comic way -- that they were playing not Christmas carols, but a weedy cover version of "Everybody Hurts".
None of this was that relevant to me personally. I've actually been feeling quite happy this year, for a number of reasons. But I know that for many people, the season of "comfort and joy" is anything but, and that seems cruel and unfair. I wonder whether humans have always had a tendency to get depressed at times of public festivity, or if there is something about modern life that encourages it.
Nick has more reflections on the so-called "war on Christmas", and those who are truly under siege.
None of this was that relevant to me personally. I've actually been feeling quite happy this year, for a number of reasons. But I know that for many people, the season of "comfort and joy" is anything but, and that seems cruel and unfair. I wonder whether humans have always had a tendency to get depressed at times of public festivity, or if there is something about modern life that encourages it.
Nick has more reflections on the so-called "war on Christmas", and those who are truly under siege.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
The tired elf
Maybe I took the term "garden leave"* a bit too literally, but yesterday, as my former colleagues headed off to a bleak industrial estate, I went to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. It was very cold, so I spent a lot of time indoors, and particularly in the Princess of Wales Conservatory.** This delightful building has rooms devoted to ten different climactic zones, from desert to rain forest. One area near the rear of the building is currently hosting Father Christmas's*** grotto, and the plants near the grotto's entrance have been sprinkled with artificial snow.
Yesterday I got there just after the grotto closed, and saw a woman emerge who had clearly been playing one of the elves. She still had her costume on, and her face was brightly painted, but her expression was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd just spent five solid hours helping shrieking kids on and off Santa's lap. If it wouldn't have been so rude, I'd have taken her picture; and if the cafe there sold liquor, I would have bought her a drink.
* American readers please note: "Garden leave" is not the same as "vacation".
** Not, as I originally thought, named in honour of Diana's deep interest in botany.
*** They've made a point of calling it this, rather than Santa's grotto, although "Santa" is common in the UK these days.
Yesterday I got there just after the grotto closed, and saw a woman emerge who had clearly been playing one of the elves. She still had her costume on, and her face was brightly painted, but her expression was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd just spent five solid hours helping shrieking kids on and off Santa's lap. If it wouldn't have been so rude, I'd have taken her picture; and if the cafe there sold liquor, I would have bought her a drink.
* American readers please note: "Garden leave" is not the same as "vacation".
** Not, as I originally thought, named in honour of Diana's deep interest in botany.
*** They've made a point of calling it this, rather than Santa's grotto, although "Santa" is common in the UK these days.
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
A strange morning
On my way to work yesterday I saw a Pied Wagtail. If you haven't seen this bird, or read my previous posts about it, you only need to know that the normally staid RSPB bird guide begins its entry with the word "delightful". I watched it running along the pavement in front of me, occasionally taking off for a low, dipping flight, and calling to its flockmates on the other side of the road.
Then a cat emerged from a garden and headed straight for the wagtail. Without thinking, I hollered "NO" and ran toward them. The wagtail flew away before I got there; the cat tried to chase it across the road, but a car came by and he retreated to the pavement.
"You leave the birds alone", I said. The cat glared at me and ducked under a parked car.
As I walked into the pedestrian subway, I wondered what I would have done if the cat had caught the wagtail. I would have tried to get it away from him, but then what? The bird would have needed to be taken to the vet for antibiotics, at the very least. Where would I have found a vet who could do this, and how would I have explained myself at work? Would --
Suddenly the subway reverberated with unearthly bellowing. This turned out to be coming from a woman, her voice raspy with cigarettes, who was shouting and swearing at her small son for having lost his scarf the day before. I had to walk behind them most of the way to the office, and was relieved when they turned off in another direction.
When I got to work, I was called into a meeting and told I was being made redundant -- which I'd expected, and even hoped for. I subsequently learned that Friday would be my last day in the office, which I hadn't expected. Our building in the centre of Harrow is closing, and the business is moving to an isolated industrial estate in Hertfordshire. The company decided it wasn't fair to make redundant employees move, but didn't think it was worth keeping the Harrow building open while we worked our notice period. So they're going to pay me not to work for two months -- known as "garden leave" in the UK -- and then give me my redundancy package.
Although I've been ready to move on for a while, it is strange to be leaving the place where I've spent eight years of my career. I have two days to tie up loose ends and say goodbye. Because I've worked here so long, I will get a good enough payout not to have to worry about money for a while. Now it's just a question of what I do next.
Then a cat emerged from a garden and headed straight for the wagtail. Without thinking, I hollered "NO" and ran toward them. The wagtail flew away before I got there; the cat tried to chase it across the road, but a car came by and he retreated to the pavement.
"You leave the birds alone", I said. The cat glared at me and ducked under a parked car.
As I walked into the pedestrian subway, I wondered what I would have done if the cat had caught the wagtail. I would have tried to get it away from him, but then what? The bird would have needed to be taken to the vet for antibiotics, at the very least. Where would I have found a vet who could do this, and how would I have explained myself at work? Would --
Suddenly the subway reverberated with unearthly bellowing. This turned out to be coming from a woman, her voice raspy with cigarettes, who was shouting and swearing at her small son for having lost his scarf the day before. I had to walk behind them most of the way to the office, and was relieved when they turned off in another direction.
When I got to work, I was called into a meeting and told I was being made redundant -- which I'd expected, and even hoped for. I subsequently learned that Friday would be my last day in the office, which I hadn't expected. Our building in the centre of Harrow is closing, and the business is moving to an isolated industrial estate in Hertfordshire. The company decided it wasn't fair to make redundant employees move, but didn't think it was worth keeping the Harrow building open while we worked our notice period. So they're going to pay me not to work for two months -- known as "garden leave" in the UK -- and then give me my redundancy package.
Although I've been ready to move on for a while, it is strange to be leaving the place where I've spent eight years of my career. I have two days to tie up loose ends and say goodbye. Because I've worked here so long, I will get a good enough payout not to have to worry about money for a while. Now it's just a question of what I do next.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Why I'm not Mighty Mouse
When a few of my Facebook friends began urging people to change their profile pictures to cartoon characters, it was a bit of silly fun: filling FB with childhood memories. Within a few days, the meme had mutated. Now changing your profile pic would somehow "fight child abuse", either in the abstract, or specifically on behalf of the NSPCC. I missed the third act, as reported by Snopes, in which another set of users warned that the whole thing was really a paedophile plot to ... um ... lure kids to the computer screen, I guess. But when you put all three together, you have a nice microcosm of modern society.
Back during the bra-colour silliness, some Facebook users tried to inject some common sense by replacing their statuses with advice on how to prevent breast cancer. (The tip they chose was for women to breast-feed their babies, which isn't much help to women without babies -- or indeed to men -- but at least they tried.) I found myself wondering what the equivalent advice would be in this situation.
It seems to me that the best way for adults to prevent child abuse would be to take an interest in the children around them, and be prepared to get involved if a child seemed troubled. But here we run into the difficulty reflected in part 3 of the cartoon character saga. These days, any grown-up who takes an interest in children not related to them is viewed with suspicion. Ironically, as a result of our anti-paedophile paranoia, children's interaction with adults is increasingly limited to their own families -- which is, of course, where most sexual abuse takes place.
Back during the bra-colour silliness, some Facebook users tried to inject some common sense by replacing their statuses with advice on how to prevent breast cancer. (The tip they chose was for women to breast-feed their babies, which isn't much help to women without babies -- or indeed to men -- but at least they tried.) I found myself wondering what the equivalent advice would be in this situation.
It seems to me that the best way for adults to prevent child abuse would be to take an interest in the children around them, and be prepared to get involved if a child seemed troubled. But here we run into the difficulty reflected in part 3 of the cartoon character saga. These days, any grown-up who takes an interest in children not related to them is viewed with suspicion. Ironically, as a result of our anti-paedophile paranoia, children's interaction with adults is increasingly limited to their own families -- which is, of course, where most sexual abuse takes place.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
And maybe he can win by a Nose
(Sorry for the light posting lately. Things have been hectic for reasons I can't fully go into yet -- nothing terrible, just a lot of upheaval. I hope to resume more regular posts before long.)
If you needed further proof of my status as a Shosty fangirl, consider this: I have a daily Google alert set up for "Shostakovich". Lately the activity on this has increased, but not because of a surge of interest in 20th-century classical music. Rather, it's because an Irish racehorse called Shostakovich has been attracting some notice.
Since my feelings about racing are mixed at best, I've generally skipped these articles, but today a headline caught my eye: Shostakovich can hit the right note. What struck me wasn't so much the weak pun as where it appeared: The Daily Mirror. Was this the work of an arts graduate held captive on the copy desk, making a desperate attempt at self-assertion after a day spent proofreading articles about Katy Perry? No, the piece's second sentence showed that the reporter was aware of the musical connection too:
Full marks for trying, guys (or girls?), but I doubt one Mirror reader in a hundred will have any idea what you're on about. Have you considered applying to the Telegraph?
If you needed further proof of my status as a Shosty fangirl, consider this: I have a daily Google alert set up for "Shostakovich". Lately the activity on this has increased, but not because of a surge of interest in 20th-century classical music. Rather, it's because an Irish racehorse called Shostakovich has been attracting some notice.
Since my feelings about racing are mixed at best, I've generally skipped these articles, but today a headline caught my eye: Shostakovich can hit the right note. What struck me wasn't so much the weak pun as where it appeared: The Daily Mirror. Was this the work of an arts graduate held captive on the copy desk, making a desperate attempt at self-assertion after a day spent proofreading articles about Katy Perry? No, the piece's second sentence showed that the reporter was aware of the musical connection too:
Sylvester Kirk's juvenile couldn't orchestrate a win when favourite in this grade at Wolverhampton last time, but the manner of his two previous successes here - he is unbeaten on the surface - suggest he's capable of another win back in Robin Hood country.
Full marks for trying, guys (or girls?), but I doubt one Mirror reader in a hundred will have any idea what you're on about. Have you considered applying to the Telegraph?
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