Dealing with the binary brain, the pointy head, the fecund Coypu, and the sex life of ageing doves
The above stats information – ironically called ‘insights’ – provided for me by WordPress has succeeded the old barcharts on hits as the main event in its admin section. This is the only thing it has succeeded in doing, because apart from the bleeding obvious (I am posting less than I used to do, and yes, I was aware of that) it offers no insights at all.
What I want to know is how many people are now regular readers, who they are and what the split is between loyal Sloggers and passing trade. The silly piece of Terrazzo tiling above is about as much use as a one-legged bloke in an arse-kicking championship.
When the meeting was held to decide statistical priorities, why did nobody in the room say, “Er, this thing that looks like a colour-blindness chart, whatTF use is it?”? And the answer is simple: the meeting was staffed entirely by people with pointy heads full of pointless information.
It seems I underestimated the fecundity of the newest residents at Sloggers’ Roost, Mr & Mrs Coypu. I thought they had produced just the two offspring, but this morning I stepped outside for the customary wee, and spotted four small persons, accompanied by two adults, gorging on some last mirabelles fallen from the incredibly productive tree here.
While declaring myself an enemy of daft pet owners who anthropomorphise their companions, one would have to be granite hard of heart not to see these youngsters as cute beyond belief. Not only do they seem to be refeshingly obedient – if either Mum or Dad says “Eh up, yon two legged thing’s at it again – quick, run for cover before ‘e pisses on yer” they shoot off behind their parents – they also have the inquisitive nature that seems to typify all smaller furry beings.
A slight wind got up, and some of the leaves circled about above the grass before falling back again. Two of the cubs chased them about, stumbling over each other as they did so.
I related this to my farmer neighbour Ange this evening while in the village. He shrank back in horror.
“Mon Dieu,” he began, “You are infested…do you want to borrow my traps?”
Ange is obviously a fan of coypus interruptus. Thankfully, Mr and Mrs Coypu aren’t. (Ange is also, by the way, a chap of incredibly dry wit when the mood takes him; I saw his wife Michelle later this evening, and she invited me for lunch with them en famille next Sunday. I said yes, and feel sure I won’t regret it).
Talking of knowledge in the biblical sense, I was watching Percy & Pam the ring-necked doves yesterday afternoon as they watched me designing a shape made from old roof tiles for the guest Gite garden. How quaintly Derby & Joan they looked I thought, at which point Percy mounted his missus and gave her something of a serious seeing-to.
Why, I thought, would he be doing that now, at entirely the wrong time of year? Was it a show of affection, a quickie for old time’s sake, or a sign of early onset dementia?
In the Spring, a young man’s fancy turns to the FA Cup, and – now and then – a bit of what Scousers call “de udder thing”. In the Autumn, an old dove’s fancy turns to “Why not”? For some reason, I find this reassuring.