This year we’ll celebrate garden pal at Christmas*
MRS Davey, as I write, is recovering from a selfinflicted dead-leg caused by kneeling in the middle of our living room for a couple of hours or more.
Scattered all around her during this ordeal were hundreds of photographs capturing escapades of the Davey lineage as it has expanded across the decades. They had all been hauled down from the loft in various bin bags, boxes and ancient albums.
Now, as winter awaits, my wife has decided to set herself the not inconsiderable task of sifting through these many and various scenic shots and portraits, all accumulated before the digital photo age arrived. She says they will all be properly sorted and labelled – and, more controversially, some will be discarded.
It’s a bold project born, ironically, from this loathsome pandemic which is making us take stock of our lives.
The trouble with this sort of worthy domestic task, though, is that it’s so stop-start as each print is closely scrutinised. To be fair, it’s also full of laughs, mostly at ourselves featuring in images from years ago when hair was a different colour and one’s overall shape considerably slimmer, allowing a fine figure of a man back then to wear a hand-knitted tank top with pride.
We both need to wear glasses these days but Mrs D uses them only for special occasions when no one else is looking, whereas mine are now a near permanent bi-focal facial fixture. This optical stance of hers can spawn some oddball conversations.
For example, handing me a postcard size print from a massive mound of them on the carpet, she asks: “Where were we on holiday when that one was taken of you?”
I adjust my glasses and peer at what is a slightly blurred figure standing a fair distance from the camera lens at the far end of a swimming pool in rural surroundings. It’s probably somewhere in France.
Two things strike me immediately. One is that this person appears to be rather bald and, secondly, is clad in swim gear that could only be described as akin to a man-kini. Whereas I still have some hair, receding but not completely vanished, and my wardrobe has never boasted such minimalist bathing apparel. “Well, if it’s not you, who is it?” “I’m sorry,” I say, “I really haven’t a clue.”
I do, however, know where this unidentified holiday interloper is heading: Straight into family snapshot oblivion down at the local recycling centre.
» THIS year I have decided my Christmas cards will bear an image of a robin because over the past months as summer has rolled into autumn and ever onwards to the big chill, one of these perky little birds has been an ever-present in and around our garden.
I’m no ornithologist so I cannot be sure that the robin which first fluttered into our lives in early summer is the same one which now chirps loudly and perches daringly close to us when we’re in our outdoor space.
I feel pretty sure it is and what I like is that it’s unafraid of our human presence and over these past weeks has been getting ever closer. Hopping off the bird table or out of its favourite nearby tree it swoops to sit on the back of our garden chairs.
I find this rather entertaining especially when it flies quickly into view whenever we venture into its domain.
So, this flamboyant and fearless attitude has won a place in my affections and prompted my decision to use an image of one on the front of my festive cards.
Some people I know, however, have churlishly suggested there’s another link to my liking our redbreasted lodger, pointing out my decades of support for a football team whose nickname is the same as my little feathered friend’s.
To which I say: Up The Robins!