The Truth About Cats And Dogs

According to a survey by scientists in Bristol, published in the Veterinary Record and reported in the Daily Torygraph, people with cats are more likely to have had a university education than those who keep a dog. Despite all the caveats about correlation not being equivalent to causation, the Torygraph speculates on the reasons for the differential - it's all to do with lifestyle. Dogs are more dependent on humans than cats, so cats are more suitable for people with busier lifestyles and long commutes than those who stay at home more - and it's these busy, busy people who are busy because they have the higher-paying gigs that an education gets you.

Yes, maybe. But a tank full of fish takes even less maintenance than a cat. Not to mention hamsters, snakes, axolotls and even tortoises (by the way, my friendly pet-shop owner told me today, as he sold me frozen mice for the snake, that he'd heard of a lady who'd paid £600 in vet bills to treat a tortoise with a collapsed lung) . And for a totally maintenance-free (and cost-free) pet, there's always pet rocks.

This research result set me thinking. What sort of controls did they have? Was the result boosted by the inclusion of those of the lower orders who keep fierce dogs as trophies, mastiffs with names such as 'Asbo' or 'Semtex'? How was the result correlated to residence, given (I suspect) that a preference for cats might be dictated by whether the owner lives in a flat rather than a house, or the availability of outside space? And what about people who keep both cats and dogs? I think I shall have to go look at the original research (which indeed promises answers to such questions) and report back. But I have to take the dog for a walk first.

Zookeeping as Work-Avoidance Behaviour

I've taken a few days off, ostensibly to finally FINALLY get the Spring issue of Mallorn, the Journal of the Tolkien Society (which I edit), off my desk and into production.
Mallorn comes out twice a year - Spring and Autumn - and the one I am working on is the fifth issue that's come out on my watch. Along with my doughty Production Editor, we've turned it into a magazine we can all be proud of, one that's produced to professional standards (and which has been picked - twice - by SFX as its Fanzine of the Month.)

The problem is that I'm now more than a month after the Spring issue copy deadline and I'm still editing copy - and less and less inclined to do so. It seems I'd rather do anything than sit down to do it. So, today, rather than edit Mallorn, I ...

- took Heidi the dog, Fred the cat, and Beelzebun Demon Bunny of DOOM to the vet. The dog and the rabbit for regular vaccinations, and the cat for a check-up following a long spell with an upper repiratory tract infection that makes him sound like an ill-used accordion;


- cleaned out Squirtemius Benson Wilberforce III, the axolotl, whose tank gets pretty scummed up with algae;

- took Heidi the dog for a long walk through the woods and down to the beach;

- cleaned out the three hutches inhabited by our ten guinea-pigs, and our two chicken coops inhabited by our ten chickens.
The main fish-tank didn't need cleaning - and the snake vivarium and the hamster cage are Mrs Crox's department.


Tonight, I've promised myself a Mallorn work-in. After all that healthful outdoorsy zookeeping, a comfy sit in front of the computer will be good for my elf health.

Confutatis Maledictis

Given that there is a sizeable stratum in most schools of thugs, chavs, oiks and orcs, schoolteachers keen to enforce decent standards of behaviour face a tough challenge. One teacher seems to have found an effective solution - he straps sits the pimply perps down and makes them listen to some of his poetry Mozart. Verdi, Elgar and Bach also feature in his arsenal.

"It helps them see they are part of something bigger that will enhance their life chances if they become a net contributor, rather than detracting from it," says Head Teacher Brian Walker of West Park School in Derby, "When it's finished, there's no anger or resentment, because it's not a punishment, but pointing out the consequences of their behaviour."


You 'orrible lot is lis'nin' to The Marriage of Figaro, and yer gonna enjoy it. Or else.

I am not sure about this strategy. Associating classical music with punishment is hardly a way to get people to appreciate it, unless the Head Teacher subscribes to the Stockholm Syndrome. On the other hand, I can think of many pieces of classical music which would constitute serious punishment, were people forced to listen to them. Most things by Bartok or Wagner or Stockhausen would fall into this category. Being forced to endure even a small part of any opera by Britten would constitute a breach of the Geneva Convention, whereas forced audition of anything by Harrison Birtwhistle would be a serious offence under the UN Convention of Human Rights. Against such threats, the kinds of things schoolchildren favour - the vilest rat rap music, the most insipid contemporary R&B, or the most self-absorbed drones of student indie bands - would be a walk in the park.

Rugged Grandeur

Norfolk doesn't have the spectacular hills of Scotland. And if you want twee choc-box English villages, you'd probably do better in Devon. Sure, the vernacular brick-and-flint architecture of this part of the world does something for me, but is perhaps not for everyone. But what really does it is the vastness of the sky, and, on the coast, a remorseless expanse that at the same time dwarfs and energizes the the visitor.

So, over the recent holiday, we put aside hearth and home,
and, spurning the floshpits of Cromer
headed out west. Here, for example, is Holcombe Beach on 2 January.

The vastness of this chilly expanse (note dog in left foreground for scale) can hardly be captured in a simple photo. The sea - ah, the sea! - we never actually reached it. It's somewhere off to the right.

The next day we went birdwatching on Cley Marshes, at the reserve run by the Norfolk Wildlife Trust. Mrs Crox and I had been just once - eighteen months previously - but resolved to make more of our membership this year.

Now, that's what I call vastness. Here is Crox Minima with our handy 10x50 bonculars:
and the both of them together at the hide, looking out at the avifauna.
This time, Crox Minor (right) is using the bonculars, whereas Crox Minima (left) is using, as a 'scope, my old Canon A1 SLR with a Tamron 500-mm mirror lens on a dinky tabletop stand. With the help of my cable release and some old Fuji 1600 film I had hanging around the place, I took pictures of some shorebirds which were definitely lapwings, and some smaller ones that weren't. If any of these pics come out anywhere near decent, I'll scan one or two and post them. We also saw ducks, swans (including a black one) and Crox Minima swears she saw a barn owl.

To minimise further family squabbles I have ordered another pair of 10x50 bonculars, and we're looking forward to going birwatching when the weather is less chilly.

Solstice Catch-Up

I noticed it a few days ago - already, the dawn is creeping earlier over the parapet, the Sun is setting a little later than it was a week ago. Accustomed, around the Solstice, to full darkness before 4pm, I noticed as I went to settle the stock at Christmas, that there was still some light at about 4.10. And therein lies some hope, I guess. Four minutes more light each day. It doesn't sound much, but that's almost half an hour in a week. We country folk tend to notice these things.

The highlight of the festive season was a visit from two very good friends - our former rabbi from London days, and his wife. Being intrepid and interesting souls, they took us out to a couple of local attractions which, being local, we'd never enjoyed.

The first was a drive to Sandringham last Sunday to gawp at the Royals progressing from the church back to the great house after the morning service. Even though we were searched - and had cameras removed - before we could get close, it's remarkably informal, even in today's hysterical times. We saw Philip, Charles, Anne, Andrew, Edward, Sophie, William and Harry - as handsome a clutch of HRHs as you'll see anywhere. What struck me most was how tall they all are. I expect it's because they're so - well, so Royal - unlike we mortals, that is. Makes one quite believe in their natural superiority over we hoi-polloi.

Conspicuous by her absence was HM, who went from church to house in the Royal Bentley. This was a shame, because our rabbi was denied the chance to say a blessing that comes out only when one sees a head of state. There's a blessing for every conceivable occasion, and those learned in Torah can become blessing-twitchers. So, if ever you happen to pass HM in the street, you can say

We praise you, Eternal God, Sovereign of the Universe, for You give of Your glory to flesh and blood.

although in Hebrew. Something then, to be said only in the presence of those who've touched the hem of his garment. Or, at any rate, a nice old lady in a cloche hat.

After Sandringham we drove a short way north to Hunstanton, where we looked at the marvelous polychrome cliffs of that resort.

The seeing was crisp and clear. From the top of the cliffs one could see across the Wash, all the way to Lincolnshire, and, on the horizon, the full majesty of a wind farm, out at sea. The weather, however, was a bitter wind from the north, which kept beachfront frolics to a minimum, although the rebbitzin, being a twitcher of another kind, pointed out fulmars squabbling in crevices high on the cliffs.

This is the time of year when one takes stock. It ends, for me, on a muted note. Projects I've been involved in are either in remote pre-pre-pre development; are coming to an end; or are never likely to get off the ground to begin with. I'm also having these recurring dreams in which I am ostentatiously undervalued ... and also hearing, for the second time in recent memory, of a marriage I'd assumed to have been as solid as a rock, breaking apart. This causes a peculiar kind of distress. I can't help but wish I could get the couple in front of me and knock their heads together. Marriage can be very hard, but if one makes a promise, one should really do one's best to keep it, unless the provocation to part is unendurable. But peoples' inner lives, perhaps, are like the winter weather - chill, and full of shadows. Nevertheless one should, I feel, hang on in there against the certainty that Spring will one day come. For, as a blessing-twitcher can say, every day, even if he never catches a glimpse of HM in his life:

We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe, whose world is filled with beauty.

Cromer - The Dark Side

Cromer is a lovely place. Even on a grey and windy day, such as today, there is always a charming surprise just around the corner. Here is a rainbow out at sea, as spotted by Crox Minor on our morning constitutional.

Not that Cromer doesn't have its orcs. Here is an efflorescence of new graffiti on the beach huts that's sprouted up like an outbreak of new leprosy.

Now, you might be one of those people who think graffiti is art, an expression of the irrepressible spirit of those who have no other means of expression. You might think it's cool, urban, hip and happening.

I beg to differ.

I think graffiti is the horrible, mean-spirited, evil, spiteful effluvium of those too tiny-minded and thick to be capable of anything more than the dull and troll-like, or even to be capable of stringing words together into the Great Questions of the Age such as 'do you want fries with that?'

You might think that the perpretrators of such vandalism should be indulged, that we should make efforts to understand their perspective, if only to assuage any feelings we might have of middle-class, liberal guilt.

I beg to differ.

I think that they should have their hands cut off. I have a blunt and rusty machete in my shed...

The Discovery of a New Kind of Radiation

Many years ago when the world was young I recall coming home from school to find the following scene. My mother was sitting in an easy chair in a sunny spot in the dining room. Surrounding her, on the floor, were a golden retriever, a dalmatian, and two cats, all curled up like doughnuts, all sound asleep. As was my mother. Stirred into wakefulness by my arrival, my mother said - "I just sat down for a minute - to rest my eyes - and then -"

That's when we discovered Z -rays (or, more technically, Zzzzz-rays), emitted by any sleeping animal, and which can be transmitted to any sufficiently susceptible creature that happens to step into the Z-field (there's a wave-particle duality in operation, as you see). I suspect that the intensity of the Z-field varies by the inverse square law. However, several Z-emitters placed close together seem to exert a synergistic effect such that the strength of the combined Z-field is far more intense than one would expect were each Z-emitter encountered on its own. When my mother stepped into the midst of four very strong Z-emitters - well, basically, she hadn't a hope.

It happened to me, today. The alarm went off at 6.15 whereupon I went back to sleep. I was woken again at 6.45, this time more forcefully, by Crox Minor. I stumbled blearily out of bed, dressed, ironed a school shirt, made school lunchboxes, fed animals and children, saw the latter off to school, and arrived home at 9 o'clock to see a scene rather like this.


Strongly synergistic Z-emitters. Recently.

I sat down, thinking I could shut my eyes, just for a minute, before I made a coffee and logged on to work at 9.30.

Forty winks later, I noticed that it was 10.45...