Category Archives: My own

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On the subject of bird boxes

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Last year two men decided to build a bird box – and not just any old bird box, a complete terrace, built to exact specifications. The bird box was then fixed high on a wall, and the wait began.

It was a long wait, with no sign of honeymooners. The only witness who could offer any hope was the human resident of the room on the other side of the wall, who said early morning bird chat had been a summer constant by his window.

But other than that, nothing. Not even a feather. And no confirmed sightings of comings and goings.

This year, almost exactly a year later, the decision was taken to move the bird box due to apparent lack of occupation. Location, location, location – that had to be the problem. Perhaps it was too high. Possibly too hot. Possibly not good enough. So the box was taken down, and the lid taken off to check.

And there they were! Beautiful, boutique appartments, fluffed up and fancy. All but one had been occupied, and box number four still had a clutch of tiny, abandoned eggs in the corner.

So the spaces were cleaned out, the lid was screwed back down, and back the box went. A little lower on the wall, and a little closer to north … and the wait has begun again.

A few top tips for any aspirational bird box builders out there, especially if aiming at the discerning end of the blue tit market: keep the boxes facing north or east, and don’t interfere with them after February. Also, if you have any labrador fluff, or old sheepskin, lying around, they’ll thank you for it, if you leave it outside for them to find.

This link has some plans, and includes the information that unhatched eggs can only legally be removed from October to January.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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A year living with an electric vehicle

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It was a taxi driver who convinced us. Aware of every penny, he assured us that his electric car had saved him many pennies, especially in London.

No congestion charge. And slow roads mean longer battery life.

Over the next few weeks we pondered the options, but when the price of petrol took off like a helium balloon, we jumped. The search didn’t take long. All we wanted was a car like the taxi driver’s, and there were still a few available.

The silence and the acceleration were the first big adjustments, then the control hub, with its central dial and switches. Once we had those mastered, we had to work out how to charge the car. Short day trips were easy. We’d just plug it in at night, and in the morning it would be ready. The longer trips were more challenging.

That first winter many of the longer journeys took us to charging points in strange carparks. At night most had shadows so deep it was impossible to read the phone numbers that held us hostage until someone answered. When they did, hope flashed, and usually managed to sustain us through the next half hour of trying to work out how that particular car charger operated.

No. We don’t have your app. Yes. We shall download your app. No. It won’t take our password. Yes. The car is plugged in. No. Nothing is happening. Yes. We’ll unplug it. No. It’s still not charging. Yes. The light is flashing. No. Yes. No. Oh … hurray! Thank you! Thank you!

That was the best bit, especially if it was followed by the discovery of a cafe or pub to take care of us while the car charged.

Now, a year later, we’re feeling more confident. Even range is not such a problem. Banks of chargers are blossoming everywhere, often under service station striplights which make it easier, but blander. At least it might mean progress from the air’s point of view.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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So what’s been happening here?

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Well, January is the month to be glum, and thanks to the train strikes, we’re all being glum from home.

Nothing works. And to prove it, some of us are stopping work. So while the rain rains – and it is – and the wind howls – and it was – we’re moaning. We do pause occasionally. Recently it’s been to fret about the brotherly I-said-you-said, soundbites-at-dawn storm, that’s swirled our way. We’re still writing the chorus for that, and it’s proving darkly occupying.

This morning I was wondering whether any whales passing these islands can hear our song? And if so, what it sounds like? I imagine it sounds like a miserable humming, with crescendos here and there as we add the woes of others to our own. Perhaps that’s why there aren’t many whales around here – too glum. Although maybe not for walruses.

Thor, a fine young male, turned up in Scarborough at New Year. He didn’t stay long though, which leaves me thinking perhaps he’d been sent by the whales on some sort of reconnaisance mission to find out what’s going on.

Hope there’s a cheerful noise where you are.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023