The summer was hot. The sun seemed to always be in the sky and there was revolution in the air. Well, it seemed that way to me. It reminded me of the riot summer of eighty-one. Then I’d being doing my training to be a Postal Officer in Manchester and I well remember the tension — the heat, the too-loud streets, and the simmering hints of violence. I remember drinking Guinness in smoky bars, listening to hushed conversations with wary eyes; of nights lying awake in my hotel listening for any sudden noise, wondering what I do if there was a riot. No, it wasn’t the same really.
It did feel like there was something brewing. Covid (remember that?) was over, only the old and useless were dying now; Russia had invaded the Ukraine; fuel prices had hit the stratosphere; Liz and Rishi were touring the country chewing bits off each other and sparring like tiny-armed Dinosaurs in the waxing shade of the meteorite. Something was coming, we just didn’t know what, and we suspected that it was going to be bad.
The old anarchist kernel in my soul stirred; I read a biography of Bakunin and dreamed — maybe now, maybe this time? Alas it is never to be. I’ve always been at the syndicalist end of anarchism, which will never work. Anywhere or here. We’ve lost our collective resolve in this country (if we ever had one), our union leaders earn obscene amounts for doing bugger-all, why should they want any change? Few words were spoken, nothing was done, the Rishi/Liz circus toured the country squawking ever more ridiculous nonsense. I spent my time doing what jannys do in the school holidays…
The summer holidays, for a janny, aren’t holidays. People assume that we get the same holidays as teachers, we don’t. And after they hear our working hours the conversation goes like —
—— Why do you start at six o’clock in the morning? Because that’s when the cleaners start. The school has to be cleaned, and we can’t exactly do that when it’s being used. We have stuff to do too.
—— Why do you finish at ten at night? Because other people use the school. There’s night classes — art, languages, creative writing, wine tasting, music, cookery, car maintenance for women… To say nothing of all the sporting clubs using the gyms. Schools aren’t solely for the teaching of young adults you know. You didn’t?
But summer is generally a happy time for a janitor. Sometimes, depending on what maintenance is ongoing, it might involve extended periods of focused hard effort, but this is often shared effort, which never seems quite as bad. Working as a team helps the time and the task pass agreeably.
That summer there was nothing to do. The building was still very new, the snagging was finished, crap hadn’t accumulated to the extent that it needed dealt with; apart from the cupboard under the stairs that is.
By immemorial tradition the contents of this were spread about the front entrance on day one of the holiday. Why? Well during the summer it is a good bet that we would play host to various pests — bosses and bigwigs, nabobs and muckamucks. What will they see as they arrive? Clear evidence of a busy janitorial team. That’s the idea anyway.
As we had little to do I spent most of my time in the playground (which we’ll discuss in a bit). At night I wrote a few bits and pieces.
pokémon
small tortoiseshell
I was working in a primary school during (what I called) Pokémon summer. This was the trading card game rather than the various films, games, apps, cartoons and whatever else they have now come up with involving the lovable scamps.
The playground was full of children giving decks of cards the same rapt attention that they now give to their phones. More deals were done in a single playtime than were done in a week on the London stock exchange. I collected them too, for the kids you understand, for the kids. I had the best collection because I had more pocket money than anybody else.
Why do I mention any of this? Well for background colour mainly but also to establish that I have form for collecting useless nonsense. And to explain, partly, why I’ve decided to collect butterflies. Seeing them that is. As you can see I’ve already bagged one, possibly a denizen of our nettle-lands. It is a Small Tortoiseshell.
Why butterflies as opposed to Bees or Toads? Did you know that there are thirty-five butterflies [PDF] native to Scotland? Thirty-five is in the Goldilock’s zone—not too large, not too small. So achievable, then there’s the fact that butterflies are easy to spot and identify. Although reading about their food preferences and habitats it seems like I might need to plant their favorite treats and arrange for at least one of our raised beds to become an upland moor.
Gotta catch ‘em all.
sparrows
sparrows on a fence
Our Sparrows have taken to perching on the heras fencing, mise en famille I assume. It’s nice to see so many sparrows about. When I was a child I remember (although it’s dangerous to trust childhood memories) there being lots of Sparrows. Then they seemed to disappear. It’s good to see them back.
They’re noisy, gregarious wee brown bundles, ever-busy commuting from bush to bush. First one, then a few, then a… what’s the word?
It’s appropriate that they have three collective nouns—a quarrel, host and a ubiquity. Appropriate in the sense that there’s more than one of said nouns rather than that any are very appropriate to what they describe. Sparrows come across, to me, as chattery rather than argumentative, you don’t ever see thousands of them, and they certainly aren’t everywhere.
You do hear them a lot. Individually they make a noise that can only be described as an actual cheep but when there are a ubiquity of them and they all cheep together they make a twinkling music.
Another bird that I’ve noticed around a lot of are Goldfinches, usually perched on something singing. These are a wee jewel of a bird, red-faced and prim. I’ve seen them joining the Sparrows on the fencing. Although they do look as if they are slumming it when they do this. Perhaps they look down on ill-clad commoners like Sparrows?
high summer
a frothy canal bank
Or maybe it’s just the infernal heat and continuing drought. Certainly the pointer on the green colour-spectrum has moved from the vibrant green of spring to the yellow end. Some of that is down to the Meadowsweet which is at its frothy best at the moment (for some reason the flowers always remind me of champagne [Elderflower does that too]). Great swatches of it line the towpath, in between great banks of Willow Herb.
Another contributer to this yellow are the grasses. If you look closely you see a vast array of different types. Mostly I’m talking about the stemmed variety here. That’s not to neglect the short grasses, it’s just that
short grasses look all about the same to me. Not so the longer varieties. These range in height from foot-length cereal varieties that exploit any crack in the ground to the metre high fronds that line the water. Their seeds come in various sizes and loads too. Some are so fecund I’ve even thought about making my own wild bread. Until that is until I plucked some and became aware of the husk situation. Too much preparation.
Lastly we have the Dock. You don’t really notice Dock for most of the year, then all of a sudden there are these great flame-red spikes of it everywhere. These and the ripening Brambles are a sign of the approach of russet autumn.
will o’ the wisp
on the wing
There seem to be a lot of white butterflies around this summer. You see them all over, so this isn’t down to our nettle-lands. The mild winter and the warm summer are probably responsible, I can’t think that the drought can be involved.
Did you notice that I described these butterflies as ‘white’, rather than naming them? That’s because I’m not entirely sure what type of butterfly these are. Well, I’m fairly certain that they’re Green-veined Whites but that’s not the result of any close observation. It’s just the fact that the Large and Small Whites eat Brassicas and the only cabbages I’ve seen around here recently have been on a barge. The ones in the picture are certainly Green-veined. It took me many-many attempts to get that picture.
When I decided to collect butterflies part of the reason that they were going to be easy to photograph. I thought. Not the case I’ve now found. The wee white beggars are always on the move; they never seem to settle so that I can get a decent snap. They flit, will o’ the wisp fashion, just out of camera-range. I don’t want to ascribe malice to them but it does seem that they are taunting me—one landed on my head the other day. Actually I’m fairly sure that they are mocking me. I’ve had too many encounters that ended up with me being frustrated and the butterfly sailing off into the distance flapping its wings jeeringly for
this to be accidental.
Still I now have the Green-veined White to add to my collection, I no longer have to bother with stupid white butterflies.
divas
the Moorhen family
I saw the Moorhen chicks for the first time this week. I think they have a nest in the rushes next to Mischief (that’s the barge moored straight across from the school). Certainly I’ve been watching them swim in and
out of there for most of the summer. Moorhens are secretive about their chicks, you usually don’t see them until they are almost fully grown. So unlike the Swans whose offspring are avian equivalent of minor royals.
From the moment they hatch, to a chorus of ooh and aahs, signets are surrounded by slack-jawed, camera-toting, gawpers. Nothing else on the canal even gets a look in. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t dislike Swans, they are sweet when they’re small but there are other things of interest along the canal.
For reasons, which we won’t go into, today I got involved in a discussion with some Skanska guys, who are inspecting the fire doors, regarding the collective noun for a group of Swans. There are
five. Including a special one for when they are in the air. All too typical
of the precious white beggars I’m afraid.
Anyway, they’re now starting to attempt to fly, which I will admit is impressive sight, and when they do manage to get aloft is even more impressive. But is this truly enough reason for their hogging the entire world supply of limelight?
If, for some reason, you wish to read some gushing nonsense about a bird Swans are your go-to feathered friend. That link is to one, of many, panegyrics available on-line to our noble white divas. (Note the royal connection).
Please spare me the hate mail, I don’t care.
autumn
some Brambles
It was my first early shift of the term last week. Traditionally this is when I first detect the signs of the approach of autumn. Here I’m using the word traditionally almost completely wrongly — what I mean is that some years, on my first early shift, I sometimes spot things that give me the feeling, rightly or wrongly, that autumn is on the way. Something that I knew, from the time of year, anyway. Last week I saw nothing much.
The Brambles are ripening I suppose, some look ready. I always eat a couple on my walks to-and-fro — they’re a wee bit wersh still. There are going to be a lot of them.
I did have a couple of weather experiences. On Wednesday, you’ll recall, the heavens opened; I sloshed into work and was never entirely dry all day. On Thursday I was treated to a dawn walk of empyrean beauty (having misused traditional I won’t say magical). A clear sky of water-blue edged with a yellow/red bruise of cloud, the first of the two big moons of autumn was the thinnest of crescents, a planet (I think Venus, Fraser will know) was shining low in the
sky behind me. Everything was sky or silhouette. For once the gulls had shut up and all you could hear were Wrens barking at each other from somewhere in the trees. By the time I got to school the sun was just over the horizon, the
light had changed and the chiaroscuro had passed. What a marvellous planet we live on.
of monsters and thugs
a Jasmine?
Of the vegetable kind. The picture above is of a monster. Or if you look closely three monsters: a Sycamore, an Elder and a Jasmine scrambling through the others. I think it’s a Jasmine anyway, it’s on the far bank from the towpath and my eyes and nose are no longer in the first flush of youth so I can’t be sure. (You can usually smell Jasmines when you get up-close.)
On reflection it might be a Hebe, or some type of vine, it’s been flowering for an awfully long time if it’s a Jasmine.
This beast has been growing here for as long as I can remember, getting bigger and bigger. It’s particularly striking just before sunrise, while it’s still night really but light enough so that it glows, whitely, unworldly, dark. There are more monstrous monsters along the canal, indeed there are another couple of Jasmines with their associated trees within a hundred yards, but there aren’t very many that impress me as much.
Now let us move on to thugs. Sticking with threes, below we see another Elder, a Buddleia with some Japanese Knotweed. Yes, that Japanese Knotweed, and it’s been there for at least fifteen years without too much rampaging. I think
that we may assume that the thugs have attained some type of stasis. Such is nature’s way.
thugs
Only it’s not. Even supposing that Nature is a something that might entertain plans and ideas, stasis doesn’t seem to be one of them. And, if we consider all the mass extinction events in even this planet’s history, this maybe-entity doesn’t care about retaining it’s creations either. (The maybe-entity is now making things!) Nature is change; monsters must fall, thugs must fail, we don’t have a say in it.
The other day I was watching some YouTube thing about India. Some gorgeous shots of architectural wonders smoldering in the evening. How exotic. Later I was on the top floor and I saw the sun set behind Donaldsons. We live somewhere exotic too; if only we noticed it. Soon all things, good and bad, must pass, we should enjoy our time in the light, we may have no other.
insects
spider
At this time of year insects achieve a prominence in my life which they don’t have during the rest of the year. The picture above is of a spider which, as we know, is not an insect. But I’m sure it won’t take offense at being described as one, when we say insect in normal life we mean spiders as well.
Autumn brings big yellow moons and big brown spiders with big pincer-looking things, that will have a technical name, sticking out of their faces from the place where we have our mouths that run straight at you when you notice them. I don’t mind spiders but the ones that run at you are unsettling.
The one in the picture walked towards me quite slowly when I was having a cigarette on the steps outside the school. When it reached me it stopped and kept me company for a while. Then I, like Ms. Muffet, fled.
This is peak wasp season too. There are lots more wasps around at this time of year and they seem to have changed what they are foraging for, sticky sweet stuff is what they’re after. You often see them on Sycamores which have started oozing sap now. And around bins, bins where there’s loads of left-over young adult sugary stuffs. Changing the bags is a nightmare, there are wasp clouds, crawling wasps, buzzing wasps, every type of wasp. Daz hates it, Scotty is phlegmatic, I talk to them apparently. Funnily we never get stung.
I’ve also noticed a lot of Earwigs about this year, which isn’t normal. I know it’s not normal because I don’t usually see many earwigs at all. I’m particularly alert to Earwigs, sensitive even, because as a child I was told that Earwigs are so-called because they crawl into your ear to lay their eggs. Nice thing to tell a child; I went to sleep for three years with my hands clasped over my ears. Then I became morbidly afraid of burglars and Earwigs didn’t bother me so much.
The Earwigs I’m going to put down to a hot dry summer. Now the rains are here, there are snails underfoot, everything is greener and the gulls are dancing for worms again. Autumn may not be here but summer is over.
I well remember writing the above, for a couple of reasons. I wrote it while I was filling in down at St. Bride’s (The janny was stuck in Africa) where there wasn’t much to do. So I spent my time reading Death in the Afternoon and writing. It was there that fridgegate was resolved.
Fridgegate was a minor farce. We had a visit from one of our many bosses, one who always had to order some change to show off their power, their ability to make tough decisions and to piss people off. This time we were instructed to get rid of the fridge that was in our office. Why? There were rules against us having one. Although when I asked where I could view these rules I didn’t get an answer. There were seven of us who used the office (it was called a hub) and we all made increasingly angry protests about this over the next few days until Dazzy boy finally threatened to call in the union (which is what we should have done in the first place) and the plan was dropped. George and I were sitting in St. Bride’s when the surrender phone call, from an intermediate boss, came. We laughed for a good long while and took the fridge out from under the stairs where we’d hidden it.
The other reason that I remember it was that about this time the Queen popped her crown and the country stopped. But first some agriculture.
