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NIGEL SCOTT: Twitcher's guide to politics
NEVER mind the Beeb's much trumpeted new Monday night TV nature series, Mrs S and I were fortunate enough to watch a real piece of wildlife action in the back garden on Tuesday afternoon.
There we were looking contentedly through the conservatory windows at the rear of Normanton Towers when with a sudden flurry of wings and not the odd cry of alarm from the feeding finch population a sparrow hawk crashed magnificently into view.
Sadly for it, it missed whatever target it had been aiming at and sat for a moment, looking decidedly grumpy, before skulking off again in search, presumably, of its dinner.
Its behaviour kind of reminded me of Gordon Brown at the recent Labour party conference. Big entrance, less than impressive result, looking a bit fed-up, clearing off.
Maybe the reason it missed its intended target was because it had a dodgy eye, or maybe it just took its eye off the ball, who knows?
It did get me thinking, though, about how much of parliamentary life is reflected by our resident bird population.
In the mornings, for instance, the first sounds we hear are from the David Cameron of the bird world.
The robin sings beautifully, and looks nice and shiny, but there are those who would no doubt argue that this popular yet diminutive bird lacks real substance behind those very polished tones.
And then, of course, comes the Nick Clegg of the back garden, otherwise identified as the collared dove.
It lands in a confusion of uncertainty, looking continuously to the left and then the right without ever really making any kind of decisive movement or commitment either way. When it finally seems to make up its mind it is usually too late and someone else has grabbed the initiative.
Our finches, green and gold, and our sparrows come to think of it, are like the backbenchers.
They constantly squabble with each other, making lots of noise in the process, but actually achieve very little apart from filling their bellies at the expense of the taxpayer (i.e. raiding our well-stocked bird feeders) at any opportunity while happily leaving it to someone else (i.e. us) to tidy up the mess they leave behind.
David Attenborough is right. It's amazing what lessons you can learn from the animal world and what comparisons you can find with our own.
As for the great tit that is another regular visitor to the back garden I'll leave you to attribute your own parliamentary equivalent – although keeping up the ornithological theme it might well be that bloke that tried to sting us for the price of a duck house.
Who am I kidding? It has to be John Prescott.
Who would stoop so low?
A SUDDEN and unexpected tragedy hit Normanton at the weekend.
On Saturday night, so it appears, some worthless lowlife or lowlifes decided it would be rather a jolly wheeze to destroy one of the town's best loved community facilities.
It is only two weeks ago that I wrote of the simple Saturday morning joy of a visit to Normanton Baptist Church for a coffee and a biscuit, knowing that the small amount handed over was going to help swell the coffers of the church where both our kids were christened.
On Saturday night, however, the historic building was ablaze.
Word has it amongst the community that two seats of fire have been discovered which, if true, would appear to point to an arson attack.
Why? Why would someone stoop to such a pathetic action and what possible satisfaction can they have gained from it?
I only hope that if this was indeed a wanton act of vandalism that the perpetrators are caught and, no pussyfooting around please, quickly deprived of their liberty.
I can't speak for the good people of the church, who may well preach forgiveness, but from my point of view I reckon it would be better still if having identified them we could gather together their possessions and enjoy a little bonfire of our own.
An eye for an eye, say I.
And it being near to November 5 maybe we could enjoy a few fireworks as well. You won't have to guess too hard to think where I'd like to stick the bangers…
And then there were three...
BE careful what you wish for.
I've been moaning recently about being bored around the house after Mrs S and the kids went back to work/school/university leaving me alone to complete the final stages of my initial cancer treatment.
I craved company and this week, for better or worse, I have had it.
Mrs S, having severed the tendon in her little finger and with hand in pot, is now "hors de combat" in the working sense and is a very grumpy and frustrated home companion.
Added to that our youngest, Eleanor, was hit by some kind of coldy/fluey thing earlier this week which left her settee-bound and fed-up.
Being worried that my own illness might make me susceptible to whatever has been ailing her, I have shunned my now not-so-little girl for these past few days.
What became clear this week was that from being "the ill one", I have become merely one of three.
Normanton Towers has become more like Holby City Hospital or, for older readers, Emergency Ward 10.
Nonetheless Mrs S has been busying herself with whatever she can find to do with one good hand and finding things with which I can help when the digit deficiency proves an insurmountable obstacle.
Between them they have been wearing me out and, in the nicest possible way, I hope they both get better very soon.
I'm beginning to realise that peace and solitude is not such a bad thing after all.
nigel.scott@ypn.co.uk
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Weather for Leeds
Sunday 12 February 2012
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