In the last few days, deep into a rather silly card game I was suddenly accused of being too competitive. While admittedly I had almost sunk my claws into a fellow player to lay my card down before theirs and therefore further my aim of winning at least that round, but in fact I was somewhat taken aback by the statement.

I never have thought of myself as being competitive. I think that this largely stems from a childhood that had two main reasons why I never grew up thinking about competition. First I was an only child. As such I did not have to compete for attention or anything else for that matter – although the biologist in me is knocking at the back of my head and reminding me that all offspring compete with their parents if only to maximise attention (versus that attention going elsewhere). Secondly, I was so gloriously unfit and from a household where the only physical exercise came from walking the dog (my job) and mowing the lawn (yes, me again). At school, I was completely used to being humiliated and last at pretty much any physical activity, bar a very brief period around twelve/thirteen where my early onset puberty meant that by sheer size I could compensate for lack of speed on the rugby field sometimes literally crushing the opposition before me. Then everyone else caught up and it stopped being fun again. Therefore, I hated competitive games and saw them mainly as something you needed only to survive them as best that you could.

Even now, while I love my running, I am an antisocial runner and rarely run with anyone. I’m not interested in being faster or going further than anyone else – the only person I am competing with is me.

At primary school, I was often at the top of the class and was accustomed to being the one with the best results. That area of competition soon stopped too when I ended up at Newcastle Royal Grammar where mid table respectability on the academic front suddenly seemed to be my destiny. This was even further emphasized when, after scraping into Oxford, you suddenly realise that everyone is brighter than you. It is quite a shock. You do your best to cope, get a decent degree and reserve any thoughts of competition to the playing of board games; come to think of it even there I can largely recall every single victory as there were so few of them.

Being uncompetitive at games or even at studies is one thing – one is entirely optional fun and the other you can work around usually; when it relates to love, it can be much harder to handle. My initial explorations into the weird and twisty world of romance were an unmitigated disaster. Not content with getting dumped by email after only a few weeks by my first girlfriend, I then managed to waste the next couple of years trying to ‘win her back’.

Yes, I know, I had to learn, OK? I’m not good at letting go.

I made the mistake of thinking that by generally treating her like a princess and generally doing anything she wanted (I hate to even think of the money, time and tears I spent) that I could somehow compete with the succession of boyfriends she went through. Each time she used one up I was convinced that this time it would be different, her eyes would be opened, heavenly music would come down from on high and all would be wonderful again. But no. Another man gets ahead of me – and when that man is at least 20 years older than me, that feels like a punch to the stomach. With a razor-sharp knuckle duster.

It didn’t work in the end of course, almost never does; you cannot make someone love you –  no matter how much you put yourself through in trying to change that someone’s heart. I know this now, but that was a lesson that had to be learned through pain.

So, competitive? Me? Surely not.

Nonsense. Of course, I’m competitive. We all are. We all have egos that we need to feed although we might not think about it consciously. We want attention. We want to be loved. We like to succeed and to win. It feels good and often we get more from the joy of the act of winning then we do from the prise itself. Equally, when we feel we have lost out it can be the worse feeling in the world, especially when what we have lost is something precious.

All we can do is keep competing, enjoy our victories when we have them and hope that at the end of the day we have done better than break even.

So, I could not have asked for a larger contrast than Sao Paolo as I was driven from the airport into the centre of Brasilia. As I left Sao Paulo the last of many phases of habitation that surrounded the roads and stretched off into the distances as far as the eye could see was a ramshackle collect of walls and roofs, huddling together for mutual support and I presume sheltering as best they can many, many people.

Around the airport at Brasilia, there was nothing of the sort. Here it was parched park land with palms, new roads with relatively little traffic one them and a feeling of relatively newness; correct considering the Brazilian capitol was only inaugurated in 1960.

As the taxi coasted down the boulevards to the business hotel and meeting rooms that would be this week’s home, I noticed that the main road thoroughfare seemed to be closed to traffic – this was a Sunday – and instead populated by a smattering of walkers, joggers and people on bikes. Compared the hustle and bustle of Sao Paolo it all seemed very quiet and sedate, and largely proved to be over the coming days, at least in comparison – although crossing Brazilian roads is still an exercise in speed, courage and possible the odd prayer at times depending on just how many lanes you must scamper across.

In retrospect, I would summarise the difference between the two cities as being wrapped up in what they are about. As noted last week, Sao Paulo seems to me a place where the most important thing are the people who live there themselves. In the case of Brasilia, it is not about individuals or the mass of humanity, but about how Brazil wants to project itself and its institutions. If you look up any of the buildings – most designed by the architect Oscar Niemeyer – they are indeed impressive, even if you do not happen to be a fan of concrete. They are making bold statements and in most cases, at least adhere to my personal view that functional buildings do not (and should not) be boring. Though it was hard at times to get away from influences of the period in which they were designed – on of my favourites, the National Museum Honestino Guimaraes, to my reckoning does look like a spaceport as imagined perhaps in a post Star Wars cheap rip off. Nothing wrong with that, by the way. Next to it, the cathedral is a stunning piece of work, causing you to enter down a dark tunnel only to emerge into a huge light auditorium where monumental metal angels cascade down towards you in a scene reminiscent of many medieval ceiling paintings.

There was a second thing that in Brasilia struck me as different from Sao Paulo. In the latter, I was forced to spend most of my exercise time on treadmills as the part of the city I was in was not conducive to running. In Brasilia, the city park, a huge parched thing provided ample (if hot) opportunity for slow jogging. For me, having to go slow by necessity of the conditions had the advantage of allowing me to see many of the diverse bird species that share the park, from little ovenbirds, flycatchers, caracara or my personal favourite, the incredible cute burrowing owls. The zoologist in me was worried that I was not going to experience any of Brazil’s wildlife, but while it was not exactly a trip down the Amazon, at least it was a nice taster. So, Brasilia, for me, not about the people, but about the country and the identity it would like to project, set in a landscape while the owls look on unimpressed before vanishing down a burrow.

I have had the bonus of being sent to Brazil in the last few weeks for business meetings. There are some advantages to working for an international company. The meetings I am attending are/were – I am still here as I write – in Sao Paolo and Brasilia. The cities could not be more different based on my admittedly limited experience when I have could escape from my hotel and while both places have problems as far as I am concerned there have been things to enjoy. I feel the need to share impressions of both, starting with the better known.

First a bit of personal background. I have never been to anywhere in South America or Brazil before so this was all new to me and I was not entirely sure what to expect. In the back of my head I was wondering if my brief experience of the Philippines (a couple of days in Manila) might be somewhere near the mark due to there also being a mix of historical European influence mixed with something indigenous and unique and I think there were a few things that struck me as similar. But I certainly found lots of things that were new to me.

Sao Paolo is a mass of humanity. Apparently, it is the largest city in the Southern hemisphere and I can quite believe that. As I arrived and the pick-up took me to the hotel the city seemed to sprawl around me, starting out with very low grade housing and gradually getting more substantial as you approached the centre. It was very clear to me from the outset that poverty is rife here and over the time I was there the number of people who were living on the streets was much higher than I had experienced before and was quite effecting. When you walk through London you see plenty of homeless people admittedly, but here it was groups and on every corner, especially in the old centre of the city, which is naturally where I gravitate towards considering my interest in history. The centre did not disappoint me. There was no particular thing that I would point to – the massive cathedral, while impressive, is relatively modern, and the little seventeenth century church nearby, which was empty and quiet was far more memorable. But I enjoyed walking around the city very much and I was wondering why until it dawned on me that it was not the buildings, but the people. The sheer number of people, the noise and kerfuffle, from the hosts of young people twittering around to the shouts and the whistles of the men trying to persuade drivers to park in their specific private garage (it took me a while to work out what all the shouting was about). The atmosphere is rich, even if parts of the city are not. I also found most of the people to be friendly and helpful. This is a place where people live – which was quite a shock when I got to Brasilia, but more on that next week.

The one concern was that I felt I was getting wall to wall warnings on the levels of crime and petty theft from everything I read or everyone I spoke too; and to be blunt, it is overkill. Of course, you need to apply common sense and be aware of what is going on around you, but in public areas I do not think the risk is much more than in parts of London. In fact, I am probably more at risk back home due to complacency through familiarity. Most people, no matter how poor they are, are decent and not a threat. At times, I was too much looking over my shoulder having had the risks drummed into me to fully enjoy the experience of this city, which is a shame. But in the end as I flew to Brasilia it was the overall impression of a place, rather than a specific monument or site that would remain with me.

I do like to walk and while I am away in Brazil at this moment long walks with the Lovely Wife are something I definitely miss a lot. I can and will walk – I need to keep the level of physical activity up, and sometimes (as now, in Sao Paulo) the place you are in does not support running and I detest treadmills so avoid them at all possible. At home, there are advantages to spending a lot of time wandering around where you live, and investigating those footpaths between houses that you had not really noticed before. It provides a certain kind of delight to realise how sometimes they all connect up with each other or provide short cuts to going via the road, one things footpaths should always do is give the pedestrian an advantage over the vehicle in getting to the final destination in as short and as sneaky a way as possible. It also helps me build a network of traffic avoiding runs (much more pleasant and indeed safer) and finally allows you to better understand where things are in relation to each other, which can be helpful even if you are driving, especially in a town where some or other part of it seems to be constantly being dug up, accompanied by the joys of the four-way light control.

Outside your normal sphere of influence however something more circumspect is probably needed for people like me who have a tendency to saunter innocently through neighbourhoods with an air of genuine curiosity without much thought about the fact I’m an obvious British tourist (something which I believe is quite clear even from a distance) and that there are some places that curiosity is not actually very welcome. There have been times when I have been happily striding along and then stopped looking at the architecture and realised that what would be the most sensible thing would be to walk a little faster and more determinedly to remove myself from a situation that suddenly made me feel vulnerable and a little nervous. You probably know that feeling; you might not actually be in any danger but you are suddenly ‘out of place’ so the little alarm bell in the back of your head tells you to get a move on.

Most of the time my walks have been entirely positive. Recent wanders around Singapore (slow ones; we adopted the moniker ‘Singapore stroll’ to describe the slightly more careful stride a cold loving boy from Northern England should employ to survive in that constant heat and humidity). When I was in Japan many years ago I  walked for miles in loops from train stations and was amazed at how quickly with some of the smaller towns twenty minutes of solid walking got you away from the concrete and technology and threw you back a hundred year or so, with older ladies quietly working their paddy fields as this slightly weary Westerner walked past soaking the atmosphere up, only to mutter something under his breath after a bit of watch checking and suddenly hightail it back the way he had come, as the one drawback for being on foot is that quite often it talked that bit longer to get anywhere than perhaps you thought it would; to be avoided where at all possible, as let’s be honest, a forced march to catch the last train is never as much fun as a steady relaxed walk.

It is funny sometimes how certain books and stories hang around long after they have become completely outdated. I was thinking about this at the weekend after going to the West End production of ‘Wind in the Willows’ at the Palladium. I am fan of musical theatre anyway and there is some good stuff in the West End if people are similarly inclined; the musical version of ‘School of Rock’ is tremendous fun for example, and the current revival of ‘42^nd Street’ is positively exhausting to watch as the tap dancing is superb, constant and full on. I am also a fan of the work of George Stiles and Anthony Drewe whose work is positively charming, if a little silly. The additional songs they provided to the stage version of ‘Mary Poppins’ and more recently ‘Half A Sixpence’ are by far my favourite songs from those productions. On their own though, I do feel they get a bit bogged down in their own cleverness to deliver a cheese laden rhyme a bit too often.

But I heartily enjoyed ‘Wind in the Willows’ as it has too much charm not leave you with a smile on your face and the cast give it all they can as this is not the kind of production that fits well with subtle. At its best it almost descends into Monty Python farce – notably as Mr Toad is chased by the not very competent forces of law following his escape from prison disguised as a washer woman – and the weasels are having too much fun being bad (but not too bad, this is after all a family show).

But coming back to my opening; ‘Wind in the Willows’ is so wonderfully outdated in so many ways. That’s perhaps not surprising since the book dates from 1908. It is all about a weird world of animals that reflects our own through the anthropomorphism with loads of unsubtle subtext on class, which, being form 1908, ends up with the idiot aristocracy back in charge and very little changed despite the defeat of the uprising of the arguably working class mob (something that the musical version pulls out well – the folk of the Wild Wood really believe that they have a right to Toad Hall, which Mr Toad of course takes completely for granted).

So why does it sustain? I think two main reasons for me. The first is to anchor the story with central core of the friendship and camaraderie of the characters of Toad, Ratty, Mole and Badger; this is the core of the book and strongly – perhaps a tad too strongly – played out in the musical version, through song obviously. The message is a simple explanation of something rather more complex; if someone is a friend, you stick by them through thick and thin, even if they are sometimes really, really, annoying.

Secondly for me, it is the fantasy element which allows some of the outdated attitudes that are present by virtue of the date of writing to be absorbed into the imagined parallel animal world which clear is not trying at all to contain any form of realism; although I have to say that all the stuff in the story about cars, in 1908 still very new, still seems valid today, dare I say it pushing part of this into the speculative fiction field– the idea of some idiot terrorising the countryside in the search for speed without care for their own life or anyone else’s whether it be human or hedgehog is something we have probably all experienced at some point. Unlike the world of Mr Toad though, consequences in our world can be a lot worse.

Considering just how hot it is here in the UK now, as I swelter trying to type this out with hot sticky fingers it amuses me that over the last couple of days I have been reminding myself of spending three hours freezing cold early on a July morning last year. The Lovely Wife and I took the opportunity of seeing my Dad for Father’s Day to stop off on the way back to see the small but interesting ‘Skin’ exhibition in Hull. The core of this are some of the finished photos from Spencer Tunick’s ‘Sea of Hull’ series of installations photographed last year, in which I participated, along with over three thousand other insane people. The photos are impressive and I’m rather proud to be in them, even if, to be honest, I am a tiny bluey-green blob buried somewhere among a mass of (variably) bluey-green blobs. The final works are quite impressive, even pretty (the Lovely Wife agrees) which is somewhat different impression on the day as it is rather difficult to work out what something like this will look like when you are participating. Individual brush strokes cannot see what the final picture will look like.

Around the time most comments I received other than ‘you’re mad’ where related to the whole concept of being naked around so many strangers.  Personally, I think that is not actually a problem because the sheer mass of humanity just emphasises how diverse we are and how much clothing can be a barrier in a way to treating each other as human beings. I had lots of interesting conversations (you had to fill the time somehow) with complete strangers of both sexes and all ages, who just happened to be also naked and painted one of four shades of blue. There is quite a lively online community now where people have identified with the shade of blue they had been randomly allocated. I belong to the B3 brigade for the record. I think that the most embarrassment you can have regarding getting undressed is probably in the company of a handful of people that you know a bit, but are not close friends – like people you work with. Complete strangers; fine. Very good friends; probably OK. Bill from accounts? No thank you.

Obviously, I have no concerns in taking part in what is a piece of art, and would happily do something like this again, although I think that something this scale rarely comes along. I cannot say all the experience was enjoyable. The wind whistles off the North Sea mercilessly and while it was July we started in the early hours and finished about 7am, if we were not already painted blue then that probably would have been the predominant colour anyway. The whole thing lasted the best part of three hours, and I think that was a lot longer than many of us had anticipated. Finally, some parts of Hull have ground surfaces that might be long lasting and fine if you are wearing shoes but did not do nice things to bare feet.

While talking to the volunteer in the exhibition it appears a lot of participants have been through to look at the results. This is not that surprising as many of the participants came from the Hull area. One thing that was consistent is that many had the same views as I hold, in that they were happy they had taken part, and that it would be an experience that would stay with them (in a good way) for many years.

‘Skin’ is on at the Ferens Art Gallery in Hull until August 13^th   and admission is free. https://www.hull2017.co.uk/whatson/events/skin-freud-mueck-tunick/

While I can I must put in a good word for Hull itself. It has a poor reputation which maybe historically was justified but we have been there three times in a relatively short period and been charmed by the friendliness of the people, some very good pubs (shout out for The Sailmakers Arms) and restaurants (very good tapas at Ambiente Tapas on Humber Road) and some interesting historical connections with William Wilberforce and the fishing industry – there is plenty to enjoy and during its ‘City of Culture’ year is probably the best time to visit if so inclined.

This week I will be attending several nice receptions and dinners as part of the kind of work I do at Industry level. I work in an industry that employs a lot of scientists and people I would describe (entirely positively) as having interesting and wide ranging experiences so they are usually quite fun affairs (although clearly the food and wine always helps). I have been lucky enough to be attending these sorts of things for over a decade now, but I am struck by how things have changes and fell into a bit of a reflection on whether changes were for good or ill.

About a decade ago, such a do would have been much more formal. It would be black tie for a start. Now let me quickly explain, because not everyone gets what I mean here. I was lucky enough to get into Oxford (I’ll be frank – I used the word lucky – or if you prefer, blessed –  as I am not bright enough but was good at exams and essay writing under pressure, which fitted the entrance system at the time. If I had to compete on the level people do now, with the grades that are required at a minimum I doubt I would have got in; but hey, it is now a matter of history). Going to that kind of institution teaches you somethings about dress code quite quickly. For example, certainly in the 90s (I mean the 1990’s although this could apply to any previous century come to think of it) if you turned up to your Final exams without the correct dress – dark suit, white shirt and white bow tie, gown and mortar board (although you could just carry that) you would not be allowed in and consequently fail. Not a great get up to take an exam in, especially in the heat of June 1992 (in my case). Half the problem was getting to exam halls on time as you are waylaid by enthusiastic tourists wanting to get a picture of themselves with funnily dressed and very stressed students. I do not know if this still the case – I suspect so. Things do not change quickly at such places.

Anyway, Industry dos – and work Christmas parties come to think of it – used to be Black Tie. Dinner jacket and dress trousers, dress shirt, black bow tie, and ideally a cummerbund to keep the gut in. It is an outfit designed to look smart and flatter, as much as is possible, even the most prestigious paunch – when correctly done. If you wanted to go a little further, then of course you must learn to tie your own bow tie – not a mean feat, but really, when is clip on anything classy? – and it is worth it as the evening moves on and becomes less formal you can undo it and go all a bit louche. If you can get a nice lady to undo it for you (and yes, I can testify many are up at least for this intimacy) then all the better.

I stopped wearing my Black-tie outfit to industry and work dos a long time ago mainly because I could see I was now in the minority. The abomination that is ‘lounge suit’ had taken over; basically, guys you just mean a normal business suit. Very sad, in some ways. I do sometimes dig out my white DJ and one of my bow ties because (1) I can tie it and the Lovely Wife likes to undo it and (2) In my fantasies this is the closest I look to James Bond – it’s enough Roger Moore for me anyway. But honestly I’ve given up now and frankly usually ditch the suit for smart trousers and a nice casual shirt; no one seems to mind; it means I get to carry less luggage and in some ways, it is more me… I have never been and never will be a Sharp Dressed Man. But part of me does feel that it all feels a little less special without the opportunity to dress up.

I spent my Sunday afternoon mostly in the company of dead people; Luckily they have been no longer with us for several hundred years in some cases and are very well behaved. OK, I admit it, I spent the afternoon in a mausoleum showing people around as part of my English Heritage volunteering.

Spending two hours in a cold and damp (medieval churches are by the far the coldest of places to inhabit on even the hottest of days) does not sound too much like fun, I admit, but you might be surprised. They can be interesting windows on the past both on specific individuals and their lives, successes and failures but also how people viewed the inevitability of death.

The De Grey Mausoleum is in the village of Flitton in Bedfordshire, attached to, but not belonging to, the parish church. Although it sits like a huge carbuncle enveloping the East end of the church it was the property of the De Grey family who used to own nearby Wrest Park House and Gardens and used the Mausoleum as the burial place for the family from 1614 to the end of the Nineteenth century. When Wrest was sold to the government in the 1940s the Mausoleum came with it which is why English Heritage have it on their books. It is nationally important because of the sheer size and the range of monuments.

What visitors first find interesting is the private nature of the Mausoleum. Despite the huge scale of some of the monuments and the assumed massive cost, this was not a public display of commemorated lives. The Mausoleum was a private place for the family only, a place for prayer and to honour your family. This does put a very different perspective on monuments that seem to hint at hubris or look as they were made to make a particular impression – they were built to make an impression, but only on descendants.

The monuments fall into three main groups, representing the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries. The first, oldest group are formal, even grim monuments to the inevitability of death, illustrated by the effigies of the passed in formal state, while decoration includes grinning skulls and hourglasses born a lot on wings. Time, literally, flies. One in particular is poignant – Amabel (and no, I did not misspell her name) outlived her husband, the 10^th Earl of Kent by some fifty years so will have visited her own effigy in pale alabaster many times. Seeing yourself laid out in state week in week out must have an interesting effect on how you viewed your own mortality.

As you go deeper into the Mausoleum the change into the Eighteenth century is striking. Suddenly it is all classical in form, columns and urns and effigies dressed as Roman soldiers. The finest monument in the Mausoleum is also the largest, a massive reclining effigy of Henry, Duke of Kent. The monuments from this period speak of celebration of achievement – this more than the others. He was the member of the family who reached the highest status in becoming a Duke and he wants you to know that. It is undercut considerably by the knowledge that all his children pre-deceased him and he was unable to pass on that status to his descendants. Before I started at the Mausoleum I saw Henry as a rather unsympathetic figure; now I rather feel sorry for him, as I suspect sadness was heavy upon him when he died.

The final section of the Mausoleum sees a final step change in style, with an unrestrained and unashamed dose of Victorian Romance. Thomas, 2^nd Earl De Grey (who designed the current Chateaux style house at Wrest) lies on his tomb in fine robes and with even finer whiskers, eyes closed in his realistically carved sleep. He could just wake up any moment; in fact, when we open up the Mausoleum for viewing we have to remove the shroud we lay over him to protect the monument from the acid droppings of the bats that share the building, and it is just a little creepy pulling it back to reveal the Earl; like a lot of the monuments of this type it is very realistically carved. It is a very beautiful monument, but my favourite is next to it, a wall monument to the Earl’s wife Henrietta, Thomas stands at the base, surrounded by weeping children; above his head his wife is carried up to Heaven in the arms of an angel. It is all terribly over the top in some respects but then sometimes we forget that Victoria herself set the standard for melodrama in mourning, and it is hard not to think of Thomas spending an hour every so often in a chair at the foot of his wife’s monument, near where now his own body lies – by all accounts they were, somewhat unusually for Victorian aristocracy – actually very fond of each other.

The monuments are both expressions of grief but also positive messages of a belief in something in the afterlife or at least a life well lived. You can take one, all or none of those messages as you like, but they are objects of beauty.

The De Grey Mausoleum is open (it is free) the first Sunday of the month, 2-4pm through the summer season and various Wednesdays – check the website http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/de-grey-mausoleum/ . You might even find me lurking there with my distastefully beige volunteer uniform (but don’t let that put you off).

I did not feel as though penning something last week was appropriate – for reasons, I hope, are obvious – so it is nice to be back in the saddle. Summer has started to really kick in now (together unfortunately with the required need for gardening work for those of us lucky enough to have a substantial garden to enjoy). Our garden is looking reasonably good after some effort (although nothing can save the lawn; grass is now a minority species in its expanse I fear in between the clover, moss and various other miscellaneous species that have crept in). The birds are at their most active and charming as they go through the breeding season and my devotion to the bird feeder is paying off with a wide range of engaging species from Goldfinches to a Greater Spotted Woodpecker but one species has been exceptional this year.

My garden has been taken over by Starlings.

It started innocently enough. A handle of adult starlings arrived, presumably migrants. They in particular took to suet balls and dried meal worms (the latter in particular, but then this is spot on food for that species). Starlings are beautiful little birds as adults once you look at them clearly and they have suffered a major decline in recent years so it was lovely to see them.

A couple of weeks ago, they turned up with an additional five birds, dull brown juveniles. It looked very much that the first place they went after fledging was our feeder and they have been there more or less constantly since then. This week more juveniles turned up so at peak visiting that’s 15 to 20 individuals.

Our garden is decently sized but not huge. I am beginning to slightly worry about complaints from the neighbours.

Starlings are terribly entertaining in large groups, but they are extremely noisy. They bicker constantly even as adults and when you add in the youngsters calling to still be fed that is quite a racket in an otherwise quiet road. Then again, are they any noisier than the multiple small families that live in our road and the regular high pitched squealing, shrieking and occasional ‘I hate you!’ utterances between their sibling charges? Probably not. The Starlings are probably less violent as well, although they do bicker constantly, with the adults regularly taking to the air for brief skirmishes before dropping once more to the food as the notice a third individual sneaking in for a snack while they are otherwise occupied. The juveniles usually just sit next to each other and occasionally peck each other in the head. So again, not much different from human children (well, siblings at least).

They are eating me out of house and home though – they will demolish a fat ball in a few seconds, their little beaks acting as little pile drivers and shattering it apart. The mealworms last even less time before they are swallowed or shoved down the throats of their offspring. Also they would keep eating all day if I kept putting more out.

But I think it is worth it. Echoing the dulcet tones of Phil Daniels it ‘gives me an enormous sense of wellbeing’ and they are a species that needs a hand – after all most reasons for their decline are our responsibility as well. However, thankfully they should be off at the end of the summer otherwise we might have to increase the mortgage to keep pace with their never ending feasting requirements.

I have a set of small occasional tables I inherited from a grandparent that sometimes get pressed into service when we have guests to avoid the problem of tea cups being placed on the carpet and inevitably being spread all over it, probably by me. The largest of the tables however often threatens to spill the drinks without help from a human agent, as it has a pair of wonky legs that cause some consternation to said guests that maybe it is not entirely trustworthy enough to risk it supporting the Earl Grey.

For as long as I can remember this table has been on the wonky side. Maybe at heart I think of it as being characterful. The reality is that any time I set my mind to it those wonky legs could be quickly fixed via a short trip to Wilkinsons, procuring some wood glue and sticking the damn things permanently in the correct upright position. Even I, whose DIY skills are pathetic in the extreme, could probably manage to do that and not screw it up. However, I just never seem to get around to it. Every time I see the precarious angle of the legs I think to myself ‘I must get round to fixing that’ but for some reason it never happens.

I am sure I am not the only person who has a list of little jobs that actually would not take very long to do or are particularly hard but still never seem to get done. It fits perfectly with recent things I have read on procrastination and the ability we all have to put off things again and again in favour of doing something else instead that gives more of an instant gratification hit. We can keep putting it off too, especially if there is an element of the job that is onerous or we are not sure exactly how to go about it. Apparently the reason anything gets done in the end is because where there is a deadline there is a hard stop to the procrastination and basically we panic and finally do what we have to and should have done weeks ago. If there is no deadline, no urgency to fix the problem, then probably the chance the job will ever get done is pretty low unless a deadline is later imposed somehow. Yes, we can set our own deadlines on these open ended jobs but only the most disciplined among us will ever keep to a self-imposed deadline without some external additional pressure. I do not think I would get around to writing even these short blog posts most every week where it not that I set the date of the post as every Tuesday and the knowledge that a few people at least are actually looking to see if there is a post; in the busyness of everything writing six hundred words or so is easy to push aside for something which at the time seems more fun and/or more important.

It can be a problem; apparently it can lead to depression as, without those external pressures, some people continue to procrastinate as a rule and subsequently feel they are achieving nothing. As a natural encourager I think that is important for me to recognise as a potential issue and that sometimes encouragement is not just about telling someone they are doing well, or encouraging them to make that job application but adding a bit of steel in there as well – by setting them a deadline for that next step and holding them too it.

After writing this I was informed by the Lovely Wife that in fact we have some wood adhesive in the under stairs cupboard. My efforts to procrastinate further over the wonky leg has taken another blow, it seems. Just as well I have a work business trip to excuse fixing it for a least a little bit longer.