Day Of The Corvids

25th December and I'm working.  It's only a brief interlude before the merriment and over-indulgence begins, but it's an interesting time.  I have to drive up the A303 which is normally busy with a constant roar of cars in both directions.  Today there are few cars and there's an unusual quiet as I drive.  It is the day of the corvids.  Crows, magpies and jackdaws all throng the tarmac, picking up bits of carrion and other assorted treats - I suppose it's their Christmas dinner. I see two buzzards perched on trees beside the road, again a sight normally reserved for quieter places.  Today the humans are all in their little brick dwellings stuffing themselves silly and the corvids have reclaimed the roads for themselves.

I like the corvid family.  They are dustmen in black feathers; wonderful creatures who clear up the roadkill that we create and make rather a lush living off it too.  We feed our local jackdaws.  I'm sure the neighbours aren't delighted with us and would be happier if we restricted our magnanimity to blue tits and robins, but jackdaws have cahunes, character and make us laugh.  They will happily clear up crusts and anything else we put out for them, but seem troubled by the pink suet pellets; perhaps they're too Barbie for such iridescent macho-ness.

While we were driving back from Essex late on Sunday night a barn owl swooped low over the road.  Kim had to slam the brakes on to give the bird time to gain enough height to avoid hitting the car.  It was a magnificent creature, white and much larger than the barn owl I had met at an owl talk, whose wings where primly folded.

There seems to be a hierarchy of bird road sense.  Crows seem to have distance judgement and even driver-psychoticness nailed, while magpies are either more daring, more prone to play 'chicken' or less smart.  At the other end of the spectrum from crows are game birds, led most foolishly by the pheasant.  I have seem pheasants standing by the roadside, rocking back and forth on their legs in indecision, only to launch themselves as a car draws level with them.  Perhaps they prefer a quick roadside death to the shoot, who knows?

The experiences of having to brake for the barn owl, coupled with having to slow down for lots of magpies, who flew off at the last possible moment from their mid-road repast made me realise that it doesn't take long for nature to reclaim what is hers from us noisy, polluting humans.  That was rather reassuring.

There's still a lot of Christianity in Christmas

Oh, what a long and wearying day; the drive to the far tip of Essex to visit the nearly-mother-in-law, take her out for a Christmas meal and exchange presents.  It felt like most of the world was on the M3 and M25 along with generous dollops of fog and enough filthy road surface gunk to turn the world grey.

Was it all so bad?  Not at all.  The drivers, though often nervous for the unfamiliarity with such arduous trips, displayed none of the normal road rage symptoms and aggression one sees on the average weekday.  The other diners in the restaurant were jovial and joined conversations and sent parting goodbyes to complete strangers while the busy waiting staff smiled indulgently at the children scampering around.  All of this not normal behaviour.

Many of us bewail the passing of the 'true' value of Christmas and we fear that it has all been taken over by cynical marketing types eager to part us from our salaries, I certainly do.  Today was a revelation and such a reassurance.  People were taking the time to be nice to each other, smile and act with consideration that is often absent from the daily race.   Maybe Adler was right and we are motivated for the benefit of society; maybe the marketeers haven't squeezed the last ounce of community out of us yet.  What happened today was a demonstration to me that the spirit of Christmas is alive and well.  Ain't that great?!

The Wonder Of Yule

I got such a wonderful opportunity today and I would love to share it with you on this Yule day, if I may.

I was returning from a car service, several hundred pounds poorer, but relieved my big blue beast was running well, when I felt an urge to head off to the pottery showroom in a nearby village. Ordinarily, I will do my best to avoid this place; the works are wonderful and I can spend like a lottery winner, but mostly because the potter doesn't ever stop talking! He's an interesting man, well read and thoughtful, but he rarely pauses long enough for one to break into his musings to make one's excuses to escape.

Whatever drove me to go there today, the Goddess, or my forgetfulness at quite how verbose this lovely man is, I was meant to be there. In a futile attempt to pre-empt the two hour chat that accompanies any purchase, I mentioned that I was in a dizzying hurry, stressed and behind schedule. Then I made my mistake. I asked the potter how he was. I saw the diaphragm expand, the eyes roll upwards for a moment and I knew I was lost. I was meant to hear the story.

To cut a long, convoluted tale to the bare ones, my potter knew of a Polish potter who is over in Somerset, working as a care assistant to survive and who is living in a tent in a camping field near Taunton. Living in a tent in these temperatures! I know I felt horror after the earthquakes in Pakistan knowing that the homeless people would have to survive sub zero temperatures, but this close to home?

Well, that was the reason I was meant to go to the pottery. I have an empty house that I can't decorate and finish off because my back is so rubbish and here is a fit person who might, just might, want to trade some labour and decorating for a warm, dry place to stay for a month or two. Serendipity? No, the Goddess testing me. Would I trust my gut instinct that this was the perfect thing to do, even when there were all sorts of potential pitfalls that could occur if the person were not decent? Would I do something rather than go away and dither about it?

I rang my beloved, more in an attempt to be seen to be doing the right thing than because I needed him to agree; he agreed. The potter and I drafted an agreement to protect us and to set out a fair trade, shelter for some work, and I handed the keys over. There's a part of me that feels I should be regretting such haste and impetuosity, only it's not happening. There's a part of me wondering if we will end up with a squatter and all the problems that entails, but I just know, in my bones, that none of the bad things are going to happen.

I have yet to meet the man. I have spoken to him on the telephone and he's very polite. Apparently, he spent time as a Zen monk and wears a Cossack hat and a Rasputin style beard, so I'm just hoping that his eclectic skills stretch to wielding a paintbrush and garden fork. We shall see. You know, this has made me smile so much - not for the smug satisfaction of having given someone shelter, though that is a nice feeling, but more for taking the risk and trusting my gut. Somehow I feel more alive for taking a bit of a risk and doing something I've never done before.