The size of a Rabbit's lungs

Baby Rabbits have the lung capacity of an average Opera Singer
It is one of those stupid facts that I have come to know, ever since Albert has found out that they make grand hunting material out on the field.
Once grabbed.
Their only defence is to open their mouths , take a desperate deep breath and blast out a top c worthy of anything Joan Sutherland could belt out whist dressed as a Viking in blond plaits and holding a trident and all in the hopeful result that the noise would rupture the predator's ear drums, letting the baby escape.
I was running late this morning, so a screaming bunny was the last thing I wanted to cope with.
Chris was laid up with a cold   man flu so I got up extra early, fed and watered the animals, let them all out to forage and walked the dogs. I then made said invalid a cup of tea, grabbed myself a bagel and coffee and after tucking my uniform under my arm I raced out to the car a few minutes late for work.
I had just left the kitchen door when Albert bounded over the garden wall with a baby rabbit in his mouth. Spying the dogs all lined up behind me, he crashed to a stop like a cartoon and without a pause and with some gusto, spat the baby rabbit out at my feet.
For a split second nothing happened.
Then the rabbit screamed like a banshee
And as usual all hell let loose.
Mabel surged forward like a bullet, knocking me over and sending my uniform and lunch box flying.
In the resulting hysteria,  the rabbit led the dogs a merry dance in and behind the patio planters as Albert watched the fun through slitty little feline eyes. It took me an age to capture the little bastard and let him free in the graveyard and when I finally got to work the senior sister had something interesting to say about infection control when she pointed to two large bulldog paw prints on the front of my uniform.....
Working with the acutely ill was a doddle after all that

Bananarama Venus

Forget the previous rant about THE Titanic.., I want to think of nice things before bed...
so in lieu of tomorrows post ( I am working 7.00 am to 8.15pm)
I will leave you with a bit of my 80's clap machine froth!
 enjoy!

A Hero: Margaret Dryburgh

I have a lot of heroes.
I think we all do.
Grandparents, friends, colleagues, actors.......Auntie Gladys!...there are always some charismatic characters that spark the interest and tweak the admiration.
On the surface, one of my heroes,  looks a little........ unlikely.
She was a lumpy,somewhat austere looking   lady in her mid fifties.by the name of Margaret Dryburgh
and she died in 1945 

I first "got to know" Margaret after reading two accounts of the internment of European and other national civilians after the Fall of Singapore by the advancing Japanese.
The first book White Coolies by Betty Jeffrey,gave a somewhat harrowing account of the occupation from the Australian Nurses perspective while the more comprehensive Women Beyond The Wire by Lavinia Warner and John Stanilands chronicled the plight of all of the internees in Sumatra during the war.
(John D will, I am sure have more information on this subject)

A somewhat lurid 1950's paperback illustration of an extraordinary story

Both books sang the praises of Margaret Dryburgh.
The daughter of a Sunderland minister, Margaret trained as a teacher and then a nurse before embarking on Presbyterian missionary work in the far east by the early 1920s.
She was captured by the Japanese as she joined the Singapore exodus of civilians by sea and was interned in a series of prisoner of war camps for the duration of the war.


Very quickly, and with a quiet determination Dryburgh was instrumental in providing a morale boosting influence on her fellow camp mates. She organised camp reviews, poetry readings, adult and child education, hymn singing, and designed and wrote a weekly camp newspaper which she illustrated herself with cartoons and drawings.
She also teamed up with professional musician Norah Chambers to organise a camp choir, where she was responsible for writing all of the music down from memory. The choir effectively "sang" as instruments..and would tackle complicated orchestral pieces ranging from Handle, Bach and Beethoven which impressive skill.
In 1996, Paradise Road, a film which tells the story of the Women's Choir was released with Glen Close playing the Norah Chambers character and with Pauline Collins playing Margaret Dryburgh.

Dryburgh almost survived the war. She died of Dysentery in April 1945 after her camp was relocated . By that time well over half of the choir had died of illness and malnutrition, yet at Margaret's funeral, a hymn entitled The Captive's Hymn, was sung by the remaining singers, a hymn that Margaret had written herself.

Margaret's story, for me was inspirational,
She is a shining example how the skills one can develop can be channelled into a force for good when backed up by some Bulldog spirit and a good heart.

Aggressive Sex

Thought that title would get my page reader clicking!
One of the reasons that I let my animals "free range" over their acre of land, is that they have space and opportunity to escape the bullies among their own ranks.
When I say bullies, I also clump into this category the small but vital group of male animals that "oversee" the ranks so to speak.
In spring, the gander, Turkey stags, cockerels and guinea cocks, become rampant.
Fuelled with testosterone, and with sap overflowing, they wrestle,joust and shag themselves stupid, an event that is almost too painful to watch and one which is potentially dangerous to several of the "more favoured" or indeed slow witted members of the female population.

Clapped out or Shagged out?

Theresa, the old female turkey has been such a casualty
Thick as mince and physically as nimble as Clarissa Dixon Wright, she has been somewhat pounded by Boris, who has found his mojo this year after losing it so graphically after his theatrical collapse of last year.
Turkey sex is rough and somewhat bloody ( I am writing this as an observer and not from  first hand experience!) Sharp claws and heavy bodies can wreak havoc and if you are not vigilant some very nasty injuries can result.
Only this morning, I caught sight of a particularly nasty injury on Theresa. It was hidden away just under her wing and might well have been there for some time as it looked ragged and foul.
(I have not included a photo here as some of you may be eating your wheatybangs at this ungodly Hour)
I cleaned it the best I could ( I am single handed at the moment as Pat my animal helper is away on a cruise) , sprayed the whole area with purple antiseptic spray and separated the old gal into her own run with water and corn ( which she ate with gusto)
Here's hoping she will not become septic ...I suspect she may be ok.....really dumb animals have a tendency to pull through regardless.


Theresa is not the only victim of domestic violence on the field. Several of the indian runners have balding patches on the back of their heads where the single drake secures a good hold of them before banging them silly in the pond and one or two of the slower hens are looking a little shopworn after  being surprised from behind a little more than usual.......


I am thinking of playing soothing music at them all through loudspeakers
Perhaps that will reduce the noticeable increase in male posturing

hey ho

Derbyshire Jaunt

It was a trip down memory lane today as I accompanied neighbour Carol to Derbyshire to pick up her Welsh Terrier puppy. Not only did I reconnect with some of my favourite places (The Pennines,Bakewell, Chatsworth, Buxton and Matlock, I caught up with a friend, the slightly eccentric Susan, who is a Welsh Terrier breeder of some National repute.

We bought all our terriers from Susan when we lived in Sheffield and after we moved to Wales,.which is no mean feat, I can tell you, as she interviews any prospective owner within an inch of their life.

If you don't cut the mustard with her, then you don't get the dog! Plain and simple!

I remember when we went to "view" our first Welsh Terrier Finlay, I made the mistake of scooping him up into my arms to cuddle him. Susan stopped what she was doing and said pointedly

"If you drop that puppy..you will leave here empty handed"

AND she meant it!......I have known people that might of got through the first round of "telephone interviews" with her fall at the second face-to-face interview for being late for a puppy viewing

"If they can't be on time for viewing a puppy..they don't deserve owning one" I remember her saying

I thank goodness , Chris and I passed her interviews with flying colours.

I love people like Susan. They are bright, passionate and dedicated to their animals. Making a quick "buck" from selling a puppy is the last thing on her mind,after all, to her, it is the matching up of right dog to the right owner which is her sole challenge in business.

In this day and age of a quick buck, where scumbag breeders are banging out poor bloodline dogs in puppyfarm conditions, Susan's "if you are not right for my dog then fuck you" attitude, remains as refreshing and vital as the puppies themselves, and seeing her and experiencing that "say it like it is", no nonsense pragmatism, made me wish that I too was bringing another puppy home with me.

Does that make me a potential animal hoarder?

I don't think so.... I just think,( and I believe this quite honestly)

that I just have a big, needy, animal biased heart

Soulless and Faceless

The Weather remains somewhat unfortunate today, so we were at a bit of a loss what to do with the mother-in-law. After detailed discussions we decided to venture over the Welsh Border to a fairly local "shopping and entertainment outlet" where Chris and his mum went to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, a film that I enjoyed but would be buggered if I would sit through it all again!, so I searched the meagre film offerings on offer and ended up finding a single showing of the Norwegian thriller Hodejegerne (Headhunters)
I guessed that a subtitled film was a rarity at the multiplex as the 12 year old ticket taker felt she had to mention that I was going into a "foreign" movie adding in way of explanation, that "some people walk out when they realise that they have to read subtitles"
I just about stopped myself from jumping into silly sarcasm, and merely said with a smile
that "I could cope"
I bloody hate these faceless "out of town all-singing and all dancing" shopping centres, but when needs must, I suppose they do serve a purpose........at least the film was good!

Aksel Hennie, before the  shit bath

Hodejegerne is interesting thriller. Think of "The Thomas Crown Affair" ( the one with Rene Russo), add a big dollop of 1940s Film Noir and cross with the brutality of say Fargo and you will get a flavour of what Headhunters is all about.
It stars the rather short and odd looking Aksel Hennie who plays professional headhunter and secret art thief Roger Brown. Brown has a beautiful, loyal and oh so tall Amazonian wife (Synnøve Macody Lund) who he cheats on; a challenging work life in the shape of nemesis entrepreneur Claus (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), who is not what he seems, and a criminal life that leads him into murder and mayhem.
As Brown's life unravels, he embarks on a terrifying cat and mouse game with a psychopathic killer which includes a horrendous fist fight with a savage fighting dog, a bloody chase through the Norwegian countryside and a particularly disgusting delve into a pit of human excrement! and as we watch his trials and tribulations the audience warms to this previously unsympathetic "little man" character, which is a rather clever and nice touch , I thought as you start the film hating his driven personality, and end the movie cheering his resourcefulness .....

It's a tight, interesting and rather stylish thriller. Just the ticket on a Tuesday afternoon
8/10

Fatima Krumcakes, The Saltburn Yarnbomber and The Bootle-Bumtrinket

It's pouring down here
I have walked the dogs and got wet,
Cleaned the duck house out and got very wet
and have just delivered some eggs and got wet.
Unsurprisingly it is going to be a wet day.


After sitting in the living room arm chair, looking out into the grey middle distance, like some sort of Kentish Jane Austen, Chris and his mother have climbed into the berlingo to do some shopping.
The cottage is quiet and is as clean as I can make it given the damp weather.

The Work of The Saltburn YarnBomber

At Breakfast Sorrel had me in tucks. Out of nowhere and much to Chris' irritation, she embarked on a bit of a marathon in recalling a story she had seen on the television about a "phantom knitter"
Apparently, she remembered , that an "unknown knitter" of some repute had been secretly tying a whole array of hand crafted items onto a " Pier" up North. 
The phenomenon had become to be known as the work of the  The Saltburn Yarnbomber; a phrase which I have found dreadfully amusing in itself.
Some words and phrases set out to delight and amuse 
I can think of two which have stuck in my mind just recently
The first is the name given to the naturalist Gerald Durrell's boat when he was a boy living in Corfu. His older brother, the writer Lawrence Durrell Christened the home-made craft The Bootle-Bumtrinket, completely out of nowhere, and the name, still has me chuckling helplessly when I re read My Family And Other Animals, which is one of my most favourite novels

Lawrence Durrell (centre) with Gerald ( right) and family

The second favourite phrase is in fact a name I caught reading Shooting Parrots Random Thoughts in A Random World blog.
In his entry about Google whacking he mentions the name Fatima Krumcakes in passing.
It was so Roald Dahl in it's silliness, that it caught me unawares and got me giggling like a schoolboy reading The Sun.
Has anyone else out there been entertained with similar silly phrases, names and words?
Answers on a post card!


*******************************************************************************
The rain is still lashing down. 
Chris and his mum are bickering over the best way to try to stuff one of our old pig's pork joints into the oven, and I have taken over Chris' position at the living room window, watching the rain........
Happy Bank Holiday

Pals

Prestatyn pals 1960

This 1960s photo was sent to me by a colleague at work whose Grandmother "Greta" ( second from left) was my mother's best friend. My father ( with the very large drink and fag) is holding court centre stage while my mother (far right) is looking rather pensive.
I feel that I should know the lady who is flashing her gusset to the camera, but her name eludes me for the time being.
Take away the cigarettes and change the fashion style somewhat and this photo could have been taken only yesterday. 
It provides a bit of a testament to the power and necessity of friendship and just how vital it is for all of us,to have someone " to be silly with".......it is a lovely photo!
I know I skit Tom Stevenson somewhat for always starting a post with the phrase "I have a friend....."
Looking at the above photo, all I can really say to him as he pens another "friend post" is, you are, indeed a very lucky man!