Closing the soup kitchen and Squirrel ceasefire.

Here's a blog which may have some of you tutting at me and replying with gently admonishing scripture.

 I don't feed the birds all year round.

I'm a bit of a dinosaur in this respect, I know this. The thing is, way back in the 80's when I was a spotty teenager with a mild crush on Kim wilde, the warning to all of us in the 'Young Ornithologists Club' or YOC (junior section of the RSPB - does it still exist?) was NOT TO FEED THE BIRDS IN SPRING AND SUMMERTIME. The learned opinion of the time was that peanuts fatally clogged up the intestines of chicks in the nest, giving them the mother of all constipation. Besides, we were told, nature starts to provide food sources in abundance so our help was no longer needed. Times change and so does instruction. We are now encouraged to feed all year round but I can't seem to break old traditions. I still get spots now and then and I still stop feeding the birds at the same time each year. This is not to say that I abruptly stop providing food on the first day of spring. Rather, I begin to lessen the amount of food I put out each day until, by March 1st (traditionally) I pack all of the food paraphanalia away. Suet cages, peanut holders, fat ball tubes - it all gets cleaned, lightly disinfected and stored in a cupboard in my kitchen - as redundant for the next several months as the spare posh dinner set my nan gave me. This year, being a particularly cold and snowy one, I delayed this and am only now just winding up the Red Cross freebies for the birds.

Mostly, this is rather a shame and I no longer have the everyday contact with 'my' birds that I have become used to. However, the fact that I don't feed all year round does season the whole experience with fresh excitement and expectation when I begin feeding again in late autumn, so maybe I gain something in return for my thriftiness (well - cheese on its own adds up to a lot of dosh over the winter). In fact, I definately gain something from stopping feeding the birds and it has nothing to do with the birds. I can, finally, relax my guard and cease my never-ending war with the local Grey Squirrel.

From the moment the nuts go out on show, the Squirrel puts on his tin hat, cams up his face and declares hostilities. Before the advice starts trickling in, I do believe I've tried everything to defeat him. I even buy monkey nuts especially for the Squirrel, which I leave out for the little sod. He scoffs them, usually whilst peering in at me through the living-room window. In his button-black eyes, I swear I see a little light gleaming, a kind of statement - 'Thanks very much, chum, but you don't seriously think it'll stop me going after the other lot, do you?'. I've tried going out and shooing him away as he dangles upside-down from the peanut holder, twitching his tail about like a conquering invader waving his Country's flag. Apparently, a middle-aged man waving his arms as he dashes across the lawn whilst his flapping dressing gown slowly becomes unfastened, doesn't compute as a thing to be feared by your average Grey. Mine nonchalently drops to the lawn, gives his tail a last triumphant shake and canters out of the garden. The RSPB site confidently told me that liberally sprinkling my peanuts with curry powder wouldn't bother the birds (who do not have the necessary taste buds) but would repel Squirrel with such alarm and haste that he would dash off to his drey, never to be seen again, stopping only to submerge his head in the birdbath to quench the fire in his mouth. Not on your Nelly. Mine thought that it was a treat. Just like any geezer on a Friday night, he would spend a few hours in his favourite - perhaps The Old Oak, or The Yew Tree, then finish off the evening by getting a Peanut Tikka Masala takeaway from his local feeder. He loved it. All attempts to stop him raiding the feeders and leaving them littered around the lawn, have failed. The only thing that works short-term is painting the feeding pole on which the peanut holder dangles with washing up liquid, using a pastry brush. For a couple of days, the pole is too slippy for him and he moves on. However, one rainy day, cold day or even windy day drys out the liquid and I'm back to square one. Considering that most of the British climate comprises of rain, cold or wind I have a lot of square one days.

So - at least packing the feeders away for another season means that I am not constantly humiliated by a creature with a brain the size of an orange pip. I feel like Wile E. coyote constantly being outwitted by Roadrunner.

To the rest of you - my admiration and wishes for happy feeding.