Wayward genes

A few days ago my son gave me a look that I can only describe as one of bemused disbelief and said, “You have finally lost the plot.” I do find that children are your worst critics, something that I try to bear in mind when talking to my own mother. I don’t think he’s seriously worried about my mental health, probably more concerned that he may have inherited some of my wayward genes. I see nothing strange about my behaviour, but then I’m not 26.

And what was I doing to deserve such mockery? I was simply sitting in the garden with a pair of binoculars, pen and paper, looking for butterflies. Although I am certainly entitled to watch butterflies for my own entertainment, I was, in fact, butterfly monitoring for the greater good. The Big Butterfly Count is happening in the UK at the moment – the Butterfly Conservation charity is asking people to spend 15 minutes outside, counting the number and type of butterflies that they see. They’re worried that butterfly numbers are decreasing and every year ask the public to help with their research. 145,000 counts were submitted last year, so I’m not the only one, although you can submit as many counts as you like so there might well have been only 1,000 people who each did 145 counts. So far, I’ve only done one, although I might do a few more just to wind up my son.

I suppose it might also look a little strange when I practice tai chi in the garden. To a judgemental son’s eye, it probably looks as though I spend 30 minutes waving my arms around very slowly for no good reason. I like to think there is a reason, and at the very least I get some fresh air and sunshine (if I’m lucky). The resident birds and squirrels are used to me by now and pay no attention, so I think my son could manage to do a little less eye-rolling too.

Which brings me to my robin. She appears at the patio door looking for her breakfast every morning. I have written before about my attempts to feed the birds, only to see the pigeons drive the other birds away and gobble up all the food themselves. Discouraged, I stopped feeding them for a while – I decided that it was summertime and they’d just have to make do with my raspberries. (Now I know what fruit cages are for.) But then a robin started to visit every day, so now I feed her and we have a little chat. I don’t know how she’s managed to see off the other birds, although robins do have a reputation for being aggressive and she’s certainly got a triumphantly dishevelled look about her. I don’t think my son knows about my new friend and I don’t plan to tell him. I’m worried that he might seek a court order to take over my financial affairs.