Of BSS

I suppose that someone not acquainted with some of the rituals of living on a boat, or even owning one, might imagine BSS is just a rude set of initials. I suppose it depends on the outcome of the event, but for us it's pretty important. BSS stands for Boat Safety Scheme and certification under the scheme requires the services of a qualified tester. He ( the person I use is a he) checks out the systems on the boat for safety, gas, electricity, fuel, fire extinguishers, ventilation and so on and this testing has to be carried out every four years. Failure to have the vessel tested invalidates boat insurance and can affect validity of waterways licences and so on, so for such a little name it's a big deal.

My four years were up in February, after I'd left to go to France and Italy. Given the excitement of being away and the quarantine periods first in France on returning from Italy and then back on the boat when returning from France it slipped my mind until I thought I'd better check the paperwork. My BSS was, of course, out of date. This put my insurance in jeopardy. I phoned S, who normally carries out the test for me. He said that lockdown prevented him from working at the time, but that he would get back to me when the situation changed. So, the situation has apparently changed and today's the day. I am not allowed to be on the boat this time while the systems are being tested and all social distancing conventions must be observed. I spent yesterday cleaning and tidying and generally trying to make the bits that need to be seen as accessible as possible. Now, I wait ...

This morning I set up my laptop in the shed and ran a lead out to plug it in, so here I am. It has been raining all morning, as it has done for the past couple of days, so I guess the boat is pretty wet from when I've left doorways open and to go in and out. S. has just appeared out of the back of the boat and enquired about the fire extinguishers. I have the right number of extinguishers, but there's a special number that should add up to be greater than the total of the three he has found. I point out where he'd not seen the extinguishers extra to requirement. This brings the number up to the right level - phew!

It's always a worry that he'll find something that doesn't meet the standard. The stove door has still not come back from being repaired. Not related, but I've also noted the floor is becoming a bit bouncy in places. that means something underfoot is broken, but I don't think that's part of the examination ...

Breathe again. It has passed. Great, that's that for the next four years. Paperwork to follow.

Letters To A Kingfisher - 5

Good morning, Kingfisher neighbour.

It's the second day of June in 2020. and while, at the moment, England rejoices in one of the highest rates of covid-19 per head of population, I'm not sure if I know anyone personally who has been infected. Considering we are by no means yet out of trouble, lockdown is easing. I'm using the word, "lockdown" in its colloquial sense because we have not honestly experienced a lockdown in the UK at all. For a few weeks people were told to stay at home, but there were so many exceptions to the rule it was never going to work. The talk of beginning to ease this "lockdown" has led to many people thinking that because, like me, they have no personal experience of the illness there has been a lot of panic over not very much. This has resulted in vast numbers of people congregating in limited spaces, like some of our beautiful beaches.

For some reason Lulworth Cove has become one of the main attractions in this regard. As the name suggests it is a curved strand and is accessed by steps cut into the cliff. At one end (the eastern end if childhood memory serves me correctly) is the geological formation known as Durdle Door. The newspapers have been filled with reports of people jumping into the sea from Durdle Door, some even jumping from the two-hundred foot high "lintel", and earning themselves some serious injuries. Over the past weekend one young man lost consciousness and lay on the bottom of the sea for at least a minute until other sun-worshippers on the beach reached him and got him out. Another broke his back and still one more suffered horrible injuries to his body and a broken leg. Somehow that last man managed to get to the top of the cliff and attract medical attention before being carted swiftly off to hospital by ambulance. The other two required more immediate attention and a helicopter rescue. Lulworth Cove being the size and shape it is meant that the two helicopters could only land on the beach, the one packed with people. This is what had to happen:

Image courtesy of Purbeck Police

The police had to clear enough space for the helicopters to land and that could only mean crowding the people so that social distancing was no longer possible. I should imagine that everyone who left their homes that morning under the impression that going out was now okay as long as we "stay alert" had no idea that they were going to be kettled with others on the beach so that emergency services could operate. Come to that I don't suppose the 'tombstoners" as they left home considered that, by the end of the day, they would incur life-altering injuries.

A lot of outrage and anger has been expressed about the events of the past couple of days. Does it help to apportion blame? I don't know the answer. A lot of unfortunate events coincided to spoil a lovely day at the seaside. Among these would be the number of people who considered a trip to the beach was safe and the thrill seekers who thought that jumping into the sea from a great height was safe enough. I'd like to think that we were all adults and capable of making informed decisions concerning how we behave. Clearly some of our adult decisions are better than others. I live less than an hour from some of the country's most beautifully sandy, unspoilt and often deserted beaches, but I haven't felt the need to visit. However, another layer to this event was that some people on the beach were apparently calling out encouragement to the tombstoners. Is a young man's bravado strengthened by the baying support of those who would not entertain the thought of performing any such action themselves? Is it possible that one of those injured young men might have thought better of jumping had he been there on his own? Were there jeers amongst the cheers if one of them showed a moment of caution? Accusations of being a chicken can be a powerful motivation to do something stupid. Counter-intuitively a leap into the unknown is often considered better than facing the disapproval of the mob. When the emergency services tried to create safe landing space for the helicopters they were met with some resistance, some of that fuelled by a hot day's boozing. Did that resistance result in dangerous delays for the injured? Again I don't know. 

We think we have been on lockdown. We haven't. People have used all kinds of excuses for getting out of the house to enjoy the sunshine. Had there been ten weeks of rain I suppose behaviour might have been different.  Where police forces have taken a decision to prosecute those who broke the rules it is the police forces that have been castigated. The prevailing dynamic is that this is a free country and we should be allowed to interpret the guidance on living in these covid-19 times for ourselves. To a degree I can sympathise. I swing strongly towards social liberalism. However along with that I carry a massive burden of responsibility on my shoulders. I know that if I can blame myself when something goes wrong I am likely to do exactly that. Because I feel that responsibility so keenly I do what I can to inform myself as fully as possible before I make a decision. Sometimes my way of living induces paralysing inaction, but experience has generally shown me that if I don't know what to do, I do nothing. Eventually a way will reveal itself. A system is only as strong, though, as its weakest component. 

The lockdown we were never really in has been relaxed. We are now sending our children back to school, and more people back to work, many by public transport. New cases of covid are being reported daily. The magical R number is still very close to 1, the point at which there is no reduction in the spread of the disease. There is no cure, there is no vaccine, people still die. If members of the government and their advisors drove miles to test whether they were safe to drive or hundreds of miles to avail themselves of childcare during lockdown is it any wonder that people are not feeling fully informed? For years we have been briefed not to accept the wisdom of experts and I am one who finds it very difficult to know what and whom I should believe.

So what's the point of this rant? It's nothing to do with you, is it, Mr Kingfisher? A few days ago, someone read my previous letters to you. They've emerged as streams of consciousness, but have suffered through editing to the point where they seem to point to me being afraid to venture out. I'm cautious, but not afraid and I quite like not having to go out unless I really have to. Yes, I certainly miss being with P, I miss seeing members of my family and my friends, I miss going to live arts events, on train journeys, sharing meals and to some extent I even miss performing - however much the thought of doing it is agony. I miss physical contact, handshakes, hugs and other intimacies. I don't miss having to put fuel in the van every week or even going out in the van. I am surprised at how little I even need to go out and buy food. I don't have an underlying condition that means I need to shield myself from the virus, but I'm getting on a bit and have better things to do than become ill. In that regard I have been very, very fortunate.  Two days ago I spoke to a cousin several years my junior. She, like my mother, had a stroke at the age of fifty-two. That was the age at which the wife of a friend died of cancer. Another friend was the age I was two years ago when he had a number of heart attacks and needed a multiple heart-bypass operation. My best friend from my college years has cancer. She is quite open about the fact that it is terminal. We both want to see each other before we can't. I shan't be able to see her if I allow myself to become ill. Another friend, five years younger than I am, and who celebrated her sixtieth birthday two days before my birthday last month, is a musician who postponed last month's sold-out concert tour of Germany until later on this year because of covid shutting everything down. This morning she has had to cancel altogether following a cancer diagnosis. Yes I am very, very lucky and the plan is to inform myself and stay lucky for as long as possible.

So, dear kingfisher, I am looking forward to seeing this year's family hatch and fly. I know you're there.

Love and stuff,

marsh

Of Old Mates From The Blue

"Whoop-whooop! Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle!"

I knew almost immediately what that sound was and it was one I hadn't heard for at least a year. Climbing out of my boat I saw the red, cream and very lived-in liveaboard vessel of an old acquaintance from the first flush of Middle Level Bill activism. From a couple of hundred metres away S was holding something aloft, which I assumed to be a glass or a bottle of something strongly alcoholic as he slowed and drifted towards me. We were going to have a mardle. I love a mardle, but can count the times I have had real life chats with real life people during the eight or nine weeks of "lockdown"on the fingers of one hand. As for physical contact, that would be the goodbye hug and the kiss exchanged with P as he dropped me at the station on the day France shut down, 18th March 2020, two months and ten days ago. S drew level and immediately enquired after my stove. S was the man who introduced me to a retired welder friend of his own who repaired the mild steel back boiler that had rusted through during the time I was church sitting two or three years ago. In particular his welder mate had welded in a piece of stainless steel, which I am told requires more skill and knowledge than replacing like with like. The welder's wife came downstairs one morning recently to find her husband sitting in front of the television just as she'd left him the previous evening with one hand comfortably behind his head, stone dead.

Sadly, S has not seemed to be able to climb aboard a wagon, let alone stay on one, but as always he was cheery and effusive. I've heard he can sometimes turn aggressive, but I've never seen that side of him. What I know is he couldn't do enough to help me when I was in trouble. As we greeted each other what he was actually brandishing was a small black plant pot containing three four-inch high tomato plants. "Here," he said, handing me the pot. "Beefsteak tomatoes. you'll love 'em and they'll be huge." He mimed a spherical version of the fisherman's measurement. I took the pot and he grabbed my hand to give it a vigorous shake of greeting that turned into one of those mutual thumb-grabs that most of my musician and nomadic friends share to express that special layer of understanding. I fought off the urge to panic and withdraw, and the only thought that went through my mind with any coherence concerned the Prime Minister's boast of shaking everyone's hand shortly before he contracted covid-19. "Mustn't touch my face, mustn't touch my face," I repeated over and over in my head as we caught up each with the other's past year. I didn't even have time to collect my face mask that I've used for all conversations recently. He told me he had been trapped on the Great Ouse for months owing to the extensive Autumn flooding, the mild freeze, the weeks of very strong winds and then the covid lockdown and was only now able to move. I guess he must have been on the move for the past three or four days at least (mustn't touch my face). His boat is a similar length to mine, about fifty feet, but has a completely different layout. During the last times I'd been a guest the interior was fully "open plan" and he has a semi-traditional stern. This certainly gives him more space to move about on the back of his boat. He was also towing a GRP cruiser that had clearly seen better days. It may even have survived a great naval battle for all its apparent wear. We mardled for a while and just as the wind was carrying his boat on to the opposite bank, threatening to crush the cruiser that had jackknifed between the narrowboat and the bank we bade our farewells and he easily corrected the heading and set off up the river. If only I had as much confidence in my boat-handling skills. He waved and called until he rounded the bend, disappearing out of sight.

"Whoop-whooop! Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle!"

Mustn't touch my face, I rushed indoors and with two large squirts of hand soap and to the tune of four Happy Birthdays rubbed and scrubbed any potential lethal virus to oblivion. By this time my moustache was so horribly itchy. Funny that I actually felt slightly less clean after the manic hand-washing ritual.

Farewell, my friend. Until next you pass this way.

Letters To A Kingfisher - 4

Hola Kingfisher,

It was lovely to see you speeding past the galley window this morning. Do winds such as we have today make the flying harder? more exhilarating? both? I saw you land on a reed that was bowing at the command of the wind. You looked as though you took it all in your stride .. er, flap?

I ought to apologise. You've been getting the dulled edge of my low moods lately. Thanks for not complaining. Yes, it has been tough and I've been finding it hard to keep my spirits up. I realised I'd perhaps been overdoing the self-pity when a friend messaged me after reading the previous missives to check that I was okay. That was really kind of him. As you know I haven't really been okay. I like solitude and time and space to think and be in my own company, but solitude is very different from loneliness. I miss P. I miss being able to see C when she is feeling low and I really want to see B, before it's too late. I miss being able to give and receive hugs. Yesterday saw a return to the colder, windy, rainy weather we endured for weeks before the recent protracted sunny spell. Saturday was, I believe, the hottest day of the year so far. I may have told you that I don't thrive in the heat; although truth to tell, I'm not a fan of the cold either. I lit a fire for a couple of hours last evening. That took the chill off the air and warmed some water so it felt good not to be washing my hands in icy water every time.

C phoned. She'd been working and also needed to vent, but not about work. She's got some stuff going on with some members of the family and some of her friends. She seemed a little cheerier for having talked some of it through with me.

Last night we had a second family quiz night. My ex, all the kids except C, their partners/husbands/wives and all the grandkids Zoomed in. Some of the families were on multiple devices, so it was chaotic. The sound was dreadful and I found it difficult to hear some of the questions and the songs in the "intro round". I don't suppose that would have made much of a difference had I heard them anyway, since I only knew two or three out of the ten intros. There was a lot of hip-hop and rap and I know nothing about that kind of music. There was also a guess which celebrity's hair is in the picture. I did better on that round strangely, although, to be fair, I may not have done had R, the quizmaster general, not included Amy Winehouse, Kim Jong Un and the Mona Lisa! It was fun to connect with everyone, but conversation is impossible. As in real life, the young ones take all the attention, or in this situation the bandwidth, and the oldies rarely get to exchange a word. It was sad that C didn't feel up to joining in this time. She's been stewing further on the perceived slight we'd discussed earlier and didn't feel she wanted to mix.

Although it rained earlier today the sun is shining again and I am sitting outside to write this. The wind is still blowing hard, but I am sheltered in my lovely summer house. I really wanted to tell you that today is a much better day for me than any day for a long time. I washed my hair, trimmed and tidied my beard and at last felt able to set up and run through a few songs. It has been weeks since I played. My fingers are so stiff and the tips are so soft and my voice is so weak, but it felt great to pick up the music again. I found a new footdrum fill. It needs a lot more work, but I think I can manage it as I'm playing guitar and harmonica. I knew if I could manage to play some music I would feel better about life, but it has been so hard to find the motivation even to set up the stool and get a guitar out of the case. I may even venture back into the lockdown folk club if this carries on. I'll see if I can manage to get back into practising every day. It is shameful that I am not using this time to improve. I really would like to do a bit of recording too. I started recording "Fish On Fridays" a few weeks ago. Then the depression got the better of me and I couldn't manage any more.

Three days ago the swans went past. They were heading south at speed. This year's brood had obviously hatched within the past few days. Only two were hitching a ride on mama's back. Then the following day they came back again. This time they were in not so much of a rush. I saw the adults in the middle of the river in the distance as they approached the boat and carefully got out on to the landing stage with my camera. As I normally do when the swans go by I started talking when I judged they were within earshot. They normally come over for a little while if they have no other pressing mission. I thought they wouldn't approach this time because the cygnets were still so small. However, they came almost as close as it's possible to get to where I was standing. With the babies in between mama and papa they stayed near the bank for a while. There was no display or warning from  either cob or pen and indeed, both were craning into the river to pull up some duckweed, which they proceeded to shred into smaller pieces that the cygnets would find more easily manageable. I know it is easy to anthropomorphise, but it really felt as though the cob and pen wanted to show off the family of nine babies. Wikipedia tells me that swans lay up to eight eggs. Ha!

I'm shortly off out for a bit of an adventure - yes, I know, I always say that adventure is over-rated. It's the day to collect the groceries that I ordered last week. I wonder how this works. At least I shouldn't have to queue and maintain the appropriate social distance as I wander disconsolately around the supermarket. I'm afraid last evening's Primisterial Broadcast was very lightweight in terms of new information. It seems that anything is possible or possibly not ... In the meantime I guess I carry on trying to carry on.

Once again, best wishes to you, dear kingfisher.

Hasta mañana,

marsh

Letters To A Kingfisher - 3

Dear Kingfisher,

I didn't mean to bother you a daily basis, but that seems to have been the case so far. I guess the advantage is that you don't have time to read and I need someone to talk to. Actually, I'd really like a hug too, but I know you don't do those.

I know other people have it worse, but I also know how I feel and I'm trying hard not to feel guilty or self-indulgent. It's not working. I feel bad for feeling weak and I feel worse for moaning to you about it. At least that means some of my human friends won't have to know what's going on and we can pretend to keep on keeping on, stiff upper lip and all that - appropriate perhaps on this 75th anniversary commemoration of the Victory in Europe Day. Such commemorations add to my despair. I cannot possibly say things like this out loud, but bunting and union flags are really not my thing. That the horrors of war should never be forgotten should go without saying, but an awful lot of people seem to have a different take on this from me and are driven to say quite a lot. I find the line between a meditative contemplation with a commitment to do better in the future and barmy triumphalism almost invisibly thin. Once again I know that such a dichotomy is my burden to sort. Maybe it's the tinnitus, but there are so many clanging bells about this commemoration ... and all the others.  I read one article that somehow managed to call today's event "Victory Over Europe" Day! I don't know whether that was a wind-up or a deliberate lie, but it disgusts me. It was a war. By definition, everyone lost. I see nothing to celebrate, certainly not with union flags and bunting. I find all that quite horrifying. I find the exhortations to remember ... lest we forget, of course (no chance of that, mate) sits very uneasily. I also feel I am in a massive minority; possibly I am the only one who feels this way. I feel a massive pressure to join in the party. I don't want to. I don't even want to join in a virtual one, because those are the only parties I'll be attending for some time to come - and possibly not even any of those if someone finds this essay and determines I am a traitorous blackguard of the very worst kind.

At lunch time I turned on my internet radio. It's the best way to get any kind of radio reception where I am presently moored. The news was on and I knew what the content was going to be, so I turned to one of my favourite community radio stations, Future Radio broadcasting from Norwich. I don't know where else one might tune to hear accidentally "Dixie Chicken" by Little Feat playing at lunch time, but there it was. I sang along to the slide guitar solo in my best falsetto slide guitar voice and sang the chorus, or as much as I could remember. I bought the album decades ago, but I no longer have any means of playing my precious vinyl. That happened to be the last record in that show. The next programme started with Glenn Miller's "In The Mood". I had to switch it off because I knew what was coming and I felt sick again. I have a friend on a social media platform who seems to spend a lot of the day scouring the web to find odd little videos to send me in private messages. Some are funny and some are quite disturbing and some are simply politically not quite correct. I don't begrudge him this indulgence, how can it be any of my business? I am very proud to know him and to know that he is managing not to give into his alcohol addiction. I don't know if I could be so strong under these circumstances, but thankfully it has never been something I have had to face personally. He's stayed dry for a few months now. One of today's amusing little videos came with a message: "Pass this on to everyone. It would mean a lot." With trepidation I clicked on the "play" triangle and the black screen faded to an aerial view of the sea. Land came into view. Then cliffs, white ones. Cue Vera Lynn soundtrack. I didn't manage to stop the film before the drone swept over the coast and closed in on a military character  standing on the edge of the white cliffs wearing what looked like WW1 uniform - don't ask why. I have no idea why whatever was in the video was important enough to presume on my acquaintance that I would be prepared to acquiesce to his request to pass it on. I have no idea why it would "mean a lot". I perceive such encouragement as being very close to bullying. If I dare dissemble from the prevailing narrative I am somehow betraying the legacy of those who "gave their lives" in a terrible conflict. Again, I cannot see it that way. Most of the men who fought in the two world wars may have "given" their lives from the perspective of grieving families. They undoubtedly signed up for a cause they honestly felt was just. But then, just as now, propaganda was rife. How is it possible to know who is telling the truth? So, in another sense, their lives were also "taken". I'm certainly not going to deny that very many of these soldiers whose lives were taken showed immense courage in the face of paralysing fear. Indeed they were the stout-hearted lions who were badly let down by the donkeys who couldn't work out any other means of resolving conflict and who never left these shores. Neither can I deny that many acts of bravery were carried out in pursuit of their work. However, I also suspect that those who fought against what must have been overwhelming pressure to enlist showed great courage too. Courage like that needed to be even more resilient, because accusations of cowardice last forever. I think it takes courage for families and individuals to endure shame for taking action consistent with a principle in a moral cause. I feel the same discomfort over the annual pressure to buy and wear poppies. I've been aware of this antipathy for well over fifty years. I met up with an old school friend for the first time since our school days a few years ago and he had remembered how rabidly anti-war I had been at the time. Now, of course, I realise that life is far more complicated and even professional members of the military can be anti-war. We go about expressing our principles in different ways perhaps. However, I have never had to take part in any kind of military action and for that I am very grateful. I was born ten years, a week and a day after Victory in Europe was declared. I never had to come to terms with the aftermath of the country of my birth having been invaded. Having a French partner I see the evidence everywhere when I'm there. It's in the street names in every town. I have a Dutch friend who remembers a line across the school playground. His friends never crossed that line. On one side of it were the children of the families of collaborators and on the other the children of families associated with the resistance during the war. How does one ever come to terms with something like that? For me the waving of national flags, the display of the bunting serves more to perpetuate what divides us than what we have achieved since then.

Sorry, that wasn't what I wanted to mention. My concerns seem so petty now. I'll come back to them perhaps.

I've put it off all week, but I was forced to go out and buy some food today. I know I have the click and collection on Monday, but I have been without fresh fruit and vegetables for a few days and that is upsetting. Everything's upsetting at the moment. I am near to tears all the time. I should be strong. I could be maintaining vigilance because I know I don't trust the government not to take full advantage of the diversion this pandemic is providing. I should be writing letters to my MP, but I can't see the point. Despite having written a number of letters to him over the years I have can count the replies I have had on the fingers of two fingers - that's not counting the automatic "out of office, will get back to you soon" or the soothing nonsense of an unpaid lacky. The MP for my previous place of residence usually took months to reply, but he eventually got round round to it, not that his replies were ever useful in the terms that we might find ourselves in some sort of accord. Anyway, I'll go and cook something to eat.

Did you see the swan family this afternoon? Eight cygnets, probably no more than a week or so old. No doubt they'll be back. I shall probably try and get a photograph. They were in a hurry to get somewhere. They don't function on your scale of speed though. I wonder if they even register on your vision?

I'm supposed to be singing something in a virtual folk club tonight. I can't bring myself to practise anything. Once again I shan't be able to go in. I'm going to have to force myself sometime. Just not tonight.

Goodnight dear Kingfisher.

marsh

Letters To A Kingfisher - 2

Dear Kingfisher,

Blow me down! It's almost as though one of my trolls has been following me ...

Last evening after I'd posted yesterday's letter I received an unexpected e-mail from Second Troll. It was a lovely message enquiring after my health and general well-being considering that I must have lost a substantial part of my income. This person has lived with significant health issues for decades and had just yesterday experienced a first hold up in the delivery of live-saving medication since becoming a person at serious risk. It was nice to resume friendly exchanges of messages. I just wanted to go on record to mention that.

From discover wildlife.com

I meant to mention it yesterday, but I hope you appreciate that I made an attempt to ease some of the danger from your nesting season. I saw a mink disappear under the shed door at the weekend. I thought it was an otter because I've only seen black mink until now, but this one was coconut brown. Then, after a little research, I realised that otters were actually a lot bigger than I thought and mink now come in many colours. I don't visit the shed often but it is useful for storing stuff. When I opened it, the smell was unmistakeable and there was a pile of the distinctive mink droppings spread around the floor, but heaping up into a pile in the corner. Sad to say there were also a lot of black feathers about the place. I thought Mrs Moorhen's family seemed a little less in evidence this year. This discovery explained it. I could hear and catch glimpses of the mink as it moved to hide behind the boxes, tools and spare, probably useless, parts for the boat engine. I wasn't going to be able to manage this alone so I went to find Barry The B. Barry is an elderly terrier that is part of a small pack that occasionally sniffs, barks and makes a nuisance of themselves on my mooring. We are on very good terms now, but it did take a few years for him to stop nipping at my ankles every time I walked anywhere nearby. Being fourteen years old he is not now as agile as he once was, but he got to work immediately. He managed to corner the mink in a box, but had to be careful because mink are savage, vicious predators and this one would think nothing of attacking Barry and inflicting some serious damage; particularly so because I suspected she was nesting. By this time the Farmer had also arrived with a gun. The mink was dispatched with a single shot (hissing and screaming as she lunged at the intruding muzzle) and Barry was allowed to deal with the six kits. They can't have been very old at all since they were blind, hairless and each was still in an almost foetal ball. It makes me very sad to have been responsible for the death of these animals, but the damage that seven mink could cause, not to mentioned the devastation they would inflict on all the wildlife round here require that they are dealt with as soon as possible.

In slightly better news, I made another attempt yesterday to get into the online food shopping thing. I know this won't interest you since you forage for your own food, but I managed to locate most of the stuff I want to buy on the supermarket's website. When I tried before it was a time-consuming and highly frustrating experience and I abandoned the miserable process before completion. I was surprised to see that, if I was quick, I should be able to arrange a pick up that day. I clicked to collect between 4 and 6pm. Somehow though, I didn't notice until I received the confirmation e-mail message that 4-6pm was not yesterday, but next Monday. I tried to change the booking (or "slot" as they are quaintly designated) but that was the earliest available. I may have to become a bit smarter in how I do my shopping if I continue in this manner. The £1 or £1.50 charge for the service is bearable, but the prices in the store were cheaper for two of certain items. The discounts weren't applied to this online list. That's kind of incidental to the real conundrum though. I've run out of a few things and some other supplies are going to be used up before Monday. Do I risk a run to the supermarket? If I go, how much should I buy? I don't want next Monday's provisions to go off because I have insufficient storage on the boat. I think I am also losing some of the confidence to go out. I've been putting it off until having to go out is unavoidable. It's difficult being human sometimes.

I'm saving the best news for last. Like me, you will have noticed the return yesterday of two pairs of swallows; at least I'm assuming you noticed. I can't tell you how much joy that brought me. Do kingfishers experience joy? I know you're here with your family all year round, but the swallows travel some six thousand miles to return here after wintering south of the Sahara Desert. A few weeks ago I read of a tragedy in Greece. Thousands of swallows had been discovered dead from exhaustion while others were found staggering around on the ground too exhausted to continue flying. The blame was placed on the protracted period of wind from the north, which made their journeys so much more difficult. Normally I would expect swallows to begin arriving in April but, until yesterday, there was no sign of them. I feared they would not get back here at all. My heart swelled inside me when I saw the first pair swoop over the river. I'm not ashamed to admit that I also shed a tear or two. This isolation is hard going and I have to take my joy as, if and when it comes.

From livingwithbirds.com

Anyway, that's it for today.

Love and best wishes,

marsh
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Letters To A Kingfisher - 1

I break with my own convention of writing "of" this or "of" that, because I think this sequence of messages to myself (although admittedly theoretically also to the rest of the world) will have a different feel and purpose. A friend, a fellow songwriter, noticed I was getting low. We were both in a Zoom meeting and he followed the meeting up, with a personal message on one of the social websites we both use, to express his concern. For that I thank him. He was correct. I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep my spirits up in this horrible time. I am confined to a beautiful and remote spot in the Fens and most days are beautiful and sunny, but the motivation to do or be anything worthwhile is leaving me standing while it gallops away apace. Songwriter Friend (SF for short, although that does bring to mind a Pretty Things album that sums the mood well) suggested I address a series of letters to the kingfisher. Few members of the homo sapiens community will read them if the experience of this blog is anything to go by, and almost certainly no one will respond to this stream of consciousness. That is perfectly acceptable to me. If I wanted a response I'd write something on, say, Twitter. I think that any further blog posts under the heading of "Letters To A Kingfisher ..." or labelled "Kingfisher Letters" should, however, be considered more extreme self-indulgence than usual and avoided like a ... virus? I may read these back in a year's time and choose to delete them all.

A few weeks ago I thought I would make a lighthearted reference to my irritation at being unable to alter or get a refund for some European rail tickets I had booked to a friend's concert. The concert was the opening of a twenty-date European mainland tour and most of the shows had been sold out. I also booked overnight accommodation since the journey on the three trains there was going to take me six hours. It was a birthday present to myself on the occasion of what would once have been a significant birthday. It is no longer significant, because the government changed the rules and I have to wait an extra year for my seniority. Having mentioned the pension, I feel I now have to make reference to the appalling scam perpetrated on women who were diddled out of six years of their pensions, but I shan't ... oh bugger ... and, oh, that's just like the women who have to tell me that FGM is a far bigger social issue than MGM, whenever I sing "Circumcision". They're probably right, but my song is what it is. If they feel so strongly they could always write their own bloody songs and, no, that doesn't feel better.

These days it appears that people are not allowed to express an opinion without being "called out" on it. I appreciate that there are points of view that endanger other people and these should probably be challenged, specially when expressed in a public forum, but chiding me for expressing disappointment felt excessive. To be honest it took me back to the time I was made to stand in the corner of the dining room in junior school for returning the pea my mate, Glen, flicked at me across the table. I wasn't a naughty boy (not often anyway - although to be fair Glen frequently was - I think that's why we became friends) and being made to stand in the corner felt like an unjust response to something that was simply amusing. If the dinner lady disapproved of what we were doing a verbal warning would have sufficed to deter me from continuing the game. 

But no, it seems my feelings of disappointment are invalid in light of the "bigger picture". I managed to get refunds for the hotel and the show has been rebooked for next year, but I seem to be able to do nothing about the trains. A friend who is on the verge of being designated "Third Troll" decided a telling-off was required. Verge? No dammit, I now have a 3 trolls on social media. I could hear the disapproval in the message as I read it and see the expression of disgust on the face of the writer in my imagination. Yes, 3rdT has daughters on the front line of medical care and is worried to distraction for their safety. If 3rdT feels my worries are trivial in comparison, that is a valid opinion. I am ready to acknowledge that and offer whatever degree of support and sympathy remain within my power to offer, but to be shamed in public for a triviality seems disproportionate. I don't know how helpful it is for anyone to play "my woes are bigger than your woes, so what are you moaning about?" Still less do I want to graduate to the other game - you know, the one that starts "look what I'm doing for the good of the nation, what are you actually doing?" 

As it happens I had actually prepared the ground on this occasion. Every penny counts and all my work disappeared over the course of two or three days while I was still in France. My concern was that I could not get a refund or re-book the travel for a later date. Somehow I am expected to support a huge and  international organisation because it is withdrawing its service when I am not entirely clear how I can afford to put flour in the bread-maker, assuming I can find any on shop shelves to purchase. Okay that is an exaggeration, I can probably afford it, but my situation is not exactly secure. The self-employed sole-trader is not at the head of the queue for the government's 80% offer.

Bearing in mind I have somehow acquired three trolls, all of whom were once undoubtedly my friends, I have given up trying to articulate a point of view and more recently I have even stopped sharing interesting articles on social media. Responding to every rant they write takes hours. I try to do it with politeness, depth and with more light than heat. If they actually change my mind by something they have researched that may have been news to me beforehand I acknowledge that and thank them. Mostly though, what I see when they post to my page is just ranting; often having little to do with the subject I raised. First and Second Trolls, have hobby-horses, favourite subjects they like to introduce into any and every discussion. First sees socialists and anti-Semites everywhere while Second sees "remoaners". I am sick of trying to be reasonable and I am worn out with trying to be polite. The fire may return eventually, but at the moment, the ashes are not glowing brightly on my sense of humour and I am not just self-isolating, but self-censoring. This has been going on for weeks.

I guess what has brought this to a head is that another friend of mine posted something about trees. Because she had tagged me her post attracted the attention of all three of my trolls and they responded very true to form. It was horrible to see this feeding frenzy. My friend is autistic and I have no idea how she has taken the verbal duffing-up she has just received. 

I want to be kind, but some people make it very hard.

Dear Kingfisher,

Thanks so much for listening.

Lots of love,

marsh
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