Where art thou Romeo? And Juliet?

I am grieving. I have recently lost two friends, and I hadn’t even known them very long. We’d only just got on first name terms; to them I was Blurp, or sometimes Blarp. To me they were Romeo and Juliet, and they were moorhens.

For those of you who don’t have moorhens in your neck of the woods (note: they don't live in woods), see the pics. They’re a ground-dwelling bird but always live close to water. They’re closely related to the coot but seem less interested in swimming.

Anyway, about three months ago as I was working in the garden, a lone moorhen felt brave enough to join me, although at a safe distance. This was a real novelty, because in the two years we’d lived beside the river we hadn’t seen any moorhens, only coots, ducks, geese, swans and the odd grebe.

I cautiously backed inside, got a handful of birdseed and threw it towards him. (Yes I know, I’ve automatically called the bird a ‘him’ without any thought to gender orientation. But wait, you’ll see I was right). Predictably he fled in a panic having just had the equivalent of a hailstorm fall on him, but he did come back after a little while and began pecking at the seeds.

I kept my distance and carried on with sawing timber, my job of the moment. I wanted him to feel that I didn’t really care one way or another, and that he could dine in safety and security. Nonchalance was my middle name, though I kept a watchful eye.

Over the next few weeks the moorhen visited the garden fairly regularly, and then daily. He’d wait for me (well, for breakfast) each morning, would even emit a ‘blarp’ or a ‘blurp’ sound to remind me he was there, and of course I obliged with a menu of dried mealworms and an exotic ‘all seasons’ birdseed mix. I know, Michelin Star treatment right? He hardly flinched now when the birdseed landed over him, but also I started scattering it slightly nearer me each day, and each day he would venture closer towards me.

The closest we ever got was about five feet, but I felt we’d reached an understanding: he wouldn’t come any closer and I wouldn’t lunge at him and stick him in the oven. We were both happy with that arrangement.

Then one day he turned up with a ‘friend’, who my wife Liz and I presumed was a female. Spring was approaching (still is, sigh) so obviously a young man’s fancy turns towards such things. Now we had names for them, and while Romeo and Juliet won’t win any awards for creativity, it suited them. In return however they still called me Blarp.

Star-crossed lovers

But I was delighted that Romeo had led Juliet into our garden to show her where you could get a quick meal without even having to forage. Liz and I hoped that come nesting time the pair would return with their chicks and introduce us to the family. Adding to our anticipation – and also confirming that Romeo was indeed male – we witnessed the pair mating in the garden one day. I gave them some extra bird mix after that session; I figured they might be hungry.

And so it continued. Some days it would be just Romeo, and some both him and Juliet. We bought a bigger bag of seed mix.

And then one morning about a month ago, Romeo didn’t turn up first thing as he usually did; I didn’t see him till almost lunchtime, no apologies, no explanations. I asked him where he’d been but he remained quiet. He did eat his lunch though, and then disappeared.

The next day there was no sign of him, or Juliet. Or the day after that. And now, four weeks later, I can only assume that Romeo and Juliet have gone the same way as their namesakes. Oh woe, and not even a ‘suspitious’ friar as prime suspect, nor any trace of poison! In fact, not even any corpses. For a few days we classified them as missing, but have had to revise this status to be 'missing presumed dead'. We suspect a fox.

I still raise the bedroom blind each morning in the hope of seeing them, or hearing a ‘blarp’, but the garden is empty. So am I.

Renovating the Blog

If you're a TFU follower, you'll have noticed that I've not been a very active blogger lately. Well, for quite a long time really; 'lately' stretches the definition a bit when I haven't actaully posted anything since last April.

All I can do is apologise and explain, so here goes: I'm sorry I've not blogged more regularly and often. There - that's half of it out of the way.

And I can only blame myself, along with the council, tradespeople, architectural plans, rubbish skips, hammers, nails, drills, saws, and cans of paint. Oh, and ambition - that's a prime offender. It all boils down to the house renovation, and it seems we might have bitten off more than we can chew. Or, to invent a new and more appropriate cliché: sawn off a bit more than we meant to.

Here's a speed-dating summary: Bought a rundown house because we liked the location, had plans drawn up for a modest grand design, got council planning permission and set to, aiming to save as much as possible by doing a lot of the work ourselves. Two years later still haven't finished, and my social (and social media) life has gone down the toilet. Which reminds me: must phone plumber.

So ambition is as much to blame as anything, yet to be fair we have come a long way on the project, even though from the outside there's not much to see. It's a bit like when the Queen Mother had a double hip operation in 1995 - when she emerged from the hospital she looked just the same as she had before, except that she had two new hips. (Was I the only one who wanted to be in the crowd shouting, 'Three cheers for the Queen Mother: Hip Hip..?)

So externally there's not much to see, but inside the house has been rewired, replumbed, damp-proofed, insulated, and reconfigured. It also has two new bathrooms and a new kitchen, an office, an atrium (yes really, with spiral staircase) and a gorgeous master bedroom with mirrors on the ceiling and a trapeze for enhanced sexual shenanigans. Part of that may not be true.

Geography has also played a part. When I started the TFU we lived in a London borough, but 18 months ago moved into the new house ('project' is a better word) just outside Greater London, so my initial idea of writing a regular and very London-centric blog went out the window. (Which reminds me: must call glazier)

Therefore I have now, just this minute, taken a pneumatic drill to the blog and reconfigured it as a general, all-purpose, go anywhere, say anything organ, in the hope that I can now write about whatever I like and not be tied specifically to the capital city, much though I adore it. Thing is, it's a 43-minute train ride into town and I don't get much time to go in as often as I'd like. Also, the train service (I use the term loosely) is operated by South Western Railways - or South Western Rile, as I like to call them - so what is notionally a 43-min journey can take 4.3 hours. Or not at all if it's on one of the many strike days (which somehow seem to stick to the union's timetable much better than the actual trains).

So while I had grand plans of taking a folding chair into London on a regular basis, iPad in hand, sitting and observing and writing about the teeming life there, I just don't get out as much as I used to (see drills, hammers, paint, etc. above). That, however, hasn't stopped me thinking, getting annoyed, finding joy in things, questioning the sanity of our nation's leaders, and obliquely finding humour in everything that's going on.

Which means I'm back, and - with encouragement from my wife to 'put the paint brush down, step away from the paint brush' - I am determined to renovate the blog. After all, over the past few months it's become a bit run down, leaks a bit, and smells of damp. It's in need of some attention.

Which reminds me: must call builder.

Personalised Postcodes are now a Thing

Home owners now have the opportunity to personalise their postcodes, but at a cost; vanity doesn't come free.

Royal Mail has announced that from today it will take applications for personalised alphanumeric postcodes for an initial fee of £500 and an annual 'maintenance fee' of £200.

'We are delighted to announce this opportunity for people who own their own homes to choose a personalised postcode,' a Royal Mail spokeswoman said. 

'The postcodes could reflect a hobby or interest, a vocation, or some unique feature of their home or where they live,' she added. All applications would be vetted to ensure they don't breach standards of acceptability.

In an advance invitation to a select few privileged customers, Royal Mail has already approved the following vanity postcodes:

GR8 W8R - taken by a hospitality college

FI5 H1N - chosen by a keen angler

AV1 80R - bagged by a commercial airline pilot

K9S 4ME - selected by the owner of a dog kennels business

Existing postcodes can be dispensed with once the new one is approved. It does not need to begin with local postal area initials either, but will be unique to the single address of the applicant. The vanity postcodes will be able to be on-sold should the property change hands.

'As long as the postcode letters and numerals do not spell anything offensive or are likely to cause upset - and have not already been taken by someone else - we will approve them,' Royal Mail said. This rules out such personalised postcodes as B1G N0B, 4NI C8R, etc. 

But can you buy a vanity postcode as a gift for someone else? Yes, confirmed Royal Mail. So I'm going to, and soon - assuming it passes the decency test - you'll be able to write to:

Theresa May, 

10 Downing Street, 

London BO1 10X. 

Can't see how that would offend anyone.

- Press Association, 01 April, 2019