Sitting in the bosom of an east Yorkshire campsite, the chirp of birds (of an unknown species) accompanies this prose litteraire.
When I say the birds are of an unknown species, I’m referring to the fact GJ Strachan isn’t party to the specific avian breed. Not that I have stumbled across a ne’er before identified feathered bunch.
Then again, although unlikely, for all I know the chirpers producing this pleasant birdsong may indeed not yet come to the attention of twitchers. A phalanx which includes among their number the celebrities Chris Packham, Bill Oddie or Coronation Street’s Ken Barlow.
However, my appalling ignorance in relation to avian identification means I have no idea of their ‘type’ either way… So, in a nutshell, the only thing I am certain about is that I am uncertain.
Sure, I do know names of a few common feathered friends, such as robins, swallows, emus, penguins, peacocks and flugelhorns… That, though, hardly places me in the ornithologist par excellence category… Particularly when you take into account a flugelhorn is a musical instrument, not a bird.
Additionally, if truth be told, I have no idea if Ken Barlow is a fan of bird-spotting. His inclusion in the list was consequential of my assumption it would be the sort of tame pastime soap opera’s most vanilla man would partake in.
And, in a further candid revelation, as I don’t watch the show, I have absolutely no idea if Ken still treads Corrie’s cobbled streets… Or if William Roach, the actor who plays him, is still alive… If he is dead, though, I can confidently say he no longer sits behind bushes with a petit pair of binoculars…. Well, as confident as I can be when one has no idea what the afterlife holds!
Going back to the subject of avian identification, to mask my ignorance I occasionally make up fictional names for some of our feathered friends. For instance, last week at this very site, my visiting brother Ian spotted a bird of prey.
Possessing the same ornithological knowledge voids as his elder brother, he commented with ne’er before seen avian interest “Have you seen that bird of prey, Gaz?… I wonder what it is?”
Being a buffoon, I flippantly responded, “It’s a bird of prey!”
“I know that you idiot!… I meant the breed of the bird of prey!”
With equal idiocy I sought to appease our kid’s inquisitive nature by assuring him “It looks like a heskrel.”
“Never heard of a hestrel… Are you sure?!” my long-suffering sibling queried.
“Yeah… It is a cross between a hawk and a kestrel.” I assured him.
“Idiot!!” Ian countered with a frustration borne from enduring decades of similarly absurd engagements with his verbal jouster.
It was an encounter mirroring the occasion I endeavoured to kid him there was a dog breed with the dubious title of a Hoberman… This mix an unusual brew, and I’d venture impossible to achieve procreation, sired by a horse and a Doberman.
Anyhow, writing prose accompanied by a soundscape of an avian choir’s chirped refrains provides this capricious author with great catharsis. The calm bestowed by this audio Mogadon dispelling anxious notions and producing sedative properties where once lay angst.
Shit, gotta go… That hestrel has just swooped down and flown off with my marmite covered crumpet!!… “Come back with my breakfast, you little b*****d!!”
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