I phoned the bird nurse. Little Sparrow wasn't there when she came in today, which means Little Sparrow was put to sleep.
Sad as I am LS is no more, I am relieved I didn't condemn a little wild bird to live in captivity for a year. Of all the animals for whom the switch to captivity is a crying shame, birds have got to be top.
It's one thing to not be able to roam, but quite another to not be able to fly.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Dreamgoat
I just woke up from dreaming I had a pet pygmy goat.
I am gutted it's not real. That goat was cool.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Clipped wing
On Thursday a little sparrow was brought in by the cat. My flatmate and I managed to rescue the sparrow (my flatmate from the cat, and me from the back of the radiator on the fridge-freezer where it pathetically fell down after flying into the wall after my flatmate accidentally let go of it). Sadly I had to trim a few of its flight feathers off to get it out from behind the radiator, but better that than rotting and cooking.
We then arranged for the sparrow to be taken as quickly as possible to a vets that will try to save wildlife where they can, or give it a painless death. Flight feathers can take a year to grow back, and so I am not sure whether I'd feel more sorry for the sparrow if it lives (in captivity) or was pushed gently and chemically towards that endless night (or endless dawn, depending on your belief system).
You may find this rather soppy, and I accept that suffering and death are the unavoidable conditions of existence, but I dislike to see it in my kitchen.
The Bird Nurse Specialist (I kid thee not) will be back to the vets tomorrow and I will call to see what happened to Ms Sparrow.
We then arranged for the sparrow to be taken as quickly as possible to a vets that will try to save wildlife where they can, or give it a painless death. Flight feathers can take a year to grow back, and so I am not sure whether I'd feel more sorry for the sparrow if it lives (in captivity) or was pushed gently and chemically towards that endless night (or endless dawn, depending on your belief system).
You may find this rather soppy, and I accept that suffering and death are the unavoidable conditions of existence, but I dislike to see it in my kitchen.
The Bird Nurse Specialist (I kid thee not) will be back to the vets tomorrow and I will call to see what happened to Ms Sparrow.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Close Encounters of the von Hathor Kind
Last night I awoke with a start to find something in my room. A thing. Not a person, and not an animal but a thing.
I couldn't see it but I could hear it. At first I thought it was the cats, but then I realised I could still hear them scratching at the kitchen door where I had shut them in to stop them disturbing my sleep. It was scary to say the least.
And I was awake. There was no doubt I was awake and thinking like an awake person.
I decided to sneak out of bed and turn the light on, but discovered I was totally unable to move any part of my body other than my eyes. At that point it became terrifying. The more I willed myself to move the harder I was pinned down.
Despite not being religious I decided the best option was to have a pray. I couldn't think of any prayers straight away so had a go at that bit in Dracula where van Helsing shouts at the un-dead Lucy to get her back into her coffin so her can chop her head off.
Then I remembered the Lord's Prayer, and had a go at that. At first when I tried to speak nothing happened, but then a raspy sort of noise came from my throat. Eventually I was shouting and moving my hands.
Whatever it was, it seemed to vanish. I went back to sleep. I awoke wondering what the hell had happened, and found bruises on my wrists, then began to uncontrollably cry. I knew that I had been awake, but was wondering how to make sense of it all.
Luckily, when the world doesn't make sense, Wikipedia will, and Wikipedia told me that my experience was called Sleep Paralysis, a condition 40% of people experience at some time in their life. The mind awakes from REM sleep but the body remains still as the same mechanisms which protect us from punching our partner when we dream we are fighters or eating our pillows when we are hungry persist in stopping the intention to move being actualised. Commonly the sense of threat results in hallucination - often of shadowy figures or something sat on your chest.
The good news is that there the experience was neither psychotic nor paranormal. Nice.
I couldn't see it but I could hear it. At first I thought it was the cats, but then I realised I could still hear them scratching at the kitchen door where I had shut them in to stop them disturbing my sleep. It was scary to say the least.
And I was awake. There was no doubt I was awake and thinking like an awake person.
I decided to sneak out of bed and turn the light on, but discovered I was totally unable to move any part of my body other than my eyes. At that point it became terrifying. The more I willed myself to move the harder I was pinned down.
Despite not being religious I decided the best option was to have a pray. I couldn't think of any prayers straight away so had a go at that bit in Dracula where van Helsing shouts at the un-dead Lucy to get her back into her coffin so her can chop her head off.
Then I remembered the Lord's Prayer, and had a go at that. At first when I tried to speak nothing happened, but then a raspy sort of noise came from my throat. Eventually I was shouting and moving my hands.
Whatever it was, it seemed to vanish. I went back to sleep. I awoke wondering what the hell had happened, and found bruises on my wrists, then began to uncontrollably cry. I knew that I had been awake, but was wondering how to make sense of it all.
Luckily, when the world doesn't make sense, Wikipedia will, and Wikipedia told me that my experience was called Sleep Paralysis, a condition 40% of people experience at some time in their life. The mind awakes from REM sleep but the body remains still as the same mechanisms which protect us from punching our partner when we dream we are fighters or eating our pillows when we are hungry persist in stopping the intention to move being actualised. Commonly the sense of threat results in hallucination - often of shadowy figures or something sat on your chest.
The good news is that there the experience was neither psychotic nor paranormal. Nice.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
No offence but...
I'm a person who gets offended. Just yesterday I smacked the virtual fingers of a friend of a friend for saying 'Gay!' in response to him mentioning the beauty of the city at night in a status update.
'Ironic Homophobia Fail!' I wrote back.
*Tumbleweed of awkward virtual silence*
I've been reading a lot about people getting offended and who gets offended on the behalf of whom recently. I hadn't really thought about the role of offence in my life as a behaviour rather than an embodiment of my beliefs. So a new phase of my life is about to begin, in which I elect not to get offended about anything.
I may decide that people's views or personalities are repellent or repugnant or denounce their usefulness (I'm thinking of you, Herr Griffin) but I will not register any offence or appoint myself grand arbitrator of what can and cannot ever be said. I am turning in my thought and word police badge. (Given that yesterday was my final day on the force I'm lucky I didn't get killed or embroiled in a large feature-length mystery.)
Next, I will not be seeking out further material by which to be offended. This means I am about to stop reading the Daily Mail in order to despise it to its very core. I've never liked to think how much revenue I accrue the Mail by clicking on their pages in order to stare in horror. Yes, they hate working mothers, single mothers, gay people, equal rights campaigners, foreigners and public sector workers. The possibility of this is not going to change whilst I am not looking at the Daily Fail, like a minority hating version of Schrödinger's Cat.
I'm still keeping comment moderation on though. I might've handed back my badge but I'm keeping my gun for now.
'Ironic Homophobia Fail!' I wrote back.
*Tumbleweed of awkward virtual silence*
I've been reading a lot about people getting offended and who gets offended on the behalf of whom recently. I hadn't really thought about the role of offence in my life as a behaviour rather than an embodiment of my beliefs. So a new phase of my life is about to begin, in which I elect not to get offended about anything.
I may decide that people's views or personalities are repellent or repugnant or denounce their usefulness (I'm thinking of you, Herr Griffin) but I will not register any offence or appoint myself grand arbitrator of what can and cannot ever be said. I am turning in my thought and word police badge. (Given that yesterday was my final day on the force I'm lucky I didn't get killed or embroiled in a large feature-length mystery.)
Next, I will not be seeking out further material by which to be offended. This means I am about to stop reading the Daily Mail in order to despise it to its very core. I've never liked to think how much revenue I accrue the Mail by clicking on their pages in order to stare in horror. Yes, they hate working mothers, single mothers, gay people, equal rights campaigners, foreigners and public sector workers. The possibility of this is not going to change whilst I am not looking at the Daily Fail, like a minority hating version of Schrödinger's Cat.
I'm still keeping comment moderation on though. I might've handed back my badge but I'm keeping my gun for now.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Exercise One
I've taken to exercise. Exercise is good, no? Good for the body, good for mental health. Good for collecting equipment you only use for a month. Good for looking bad in lycra.
I went on the internet and looked at those before-after videos people take of themselves in their underwear over the course of defattification. What I learned was that the people who do well are those who take their time, and exercise a lot. Some of them have been doing a certain torturous 90-day programme you may have heard of, and some have been doing normal person exercise over the course of a lot longer. In the after photos of the latter, people are wearing jeans or their swimsuit with a look of triumph, and in the former tensing their muscles, covered in gravy, and gurning like a bulldog on an E.
The most important part about starting something new is to start. The problem is, I'm in that no-mans land where your fat looks worse with a layer of newly developing muscle underneath. This is not a thing you will understand unless you have a little chub on you, but right now I'm in the 'Damn. My trousers fit even worse!' phase. My skin looks terrible. Suddenly in the midst of all the chub and le grande derriere my ribs are showing, and it's off-setting the whole thing to its greatest disadvantage. Well, my ribs aren't in the midst of my arse, but you get what I mean.
It will pass. It will pass.
Anyway, I like to dance. I love to dance, so my day begins and ends with me dancing around my bedroom to really bad 80s pop. Currently Theme from S'Express, a certain Sabrina Salermo track which only did well in the UK because her top 'fell' off and and Stacey Q's Two of Hearts get me bopping as I brush my teeth. Ah well. What to do but enjoy this trip. And it is a trip.
I went on the internet and looked at those before-after videos people take of themselves in their underwear over the course of defattification. What I learned was that the people who do well are those who take their time, and exercise a lot. Some of them have been doing a certain torturous 90-day programme you may have heard of, and some have been doing normal person exercise over the course of a lot longer. In the after photos of the latter, people are wearing jeans or their swimsuit with a look of triumph, and in the former tensing their muscles, covered in gravy, and gurning like a bulldog on an E.
The most important part about starting something new is to start. The problem is, I'm in that no-mans land where your fat looks worse with a layer of newly developing muscle underneath. This is not a thing you will understand unless you have a little chub on you, but right now I'm in the 'Damn. My trousers fit even worse!' phase. My skin looks terrible. Suddenly in the midst of all the chub and le grande derriere my ribs are showing, and it's off-setting the whole thing to its greatest disadvantage. Well, my ribs aren't in the midst of my arse, but you get what I mean.
It will pass. It will pass.
Anyway, I like to dance. I love to dance, so my day begins and ends with me dancing around my bedroom to really bad 80s pop. Currently Theme from S'Express, a certain Sabrina Salermo track which only did well in the UK because her top 'fell' off and and Stacey Q's Two of Hearts get me bopping as I brush my teeth. Ah well. What to do but enjoy this trip. And it is a trip.
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