It's official: the first mammals were Wombles!

Scrolling through the BBC News app the other day, I came across this science article. They have found rare and perfect fossil skeletons of a small shrew-like mammal that thrived (mainly underground, presumably) during the Dinosaur Age. 

This made me sit up. Good heavens! All was now clear. These weren't mere shrews. These were Wombles. Here's a typical Womble - Orinoco:

It's so obvious. Long nose or snout, just like the fossil. Such things as hats and scarves (and tidy bags) wouldn't get fossilised, of course, so their absence doesn't matter. And Wombles live underground! 

I'm so pleased. We first heard of the Wombles of Wimbledon Common in 1973, when they began to appear on children's television. Or possibly - if a parent - one might already have discovered the children's books about the Wombles written by Elizabeth Beresford from 1968. I read one of them once. Full of authentic detail, such as a reference to the number 93 bus route, which in 1978 - when I was living in the general area and working in Wimbledon - ran between Putney, past Wimbledon Common, through Wimbledon Village, and down the hill to Wimbledon proper - past my office in fact - and then onwards. Presumably this bus route was exactly the same ten years earlier, when she began her series of books. And looking route 93 up now, I see that it still does. Astonishing how some things never change! For all I know, bus route 93 ran alongside Wimbledon Common in the time of the dinosaurs, when the place would have been a hot steaming jungle, and dangerous for anyone intent on wombling. Doubtless Great Uncle Bulgaria, the oldest Womble, can recall how it was, and put us right on particulars. 

Anyway, it's so nice to have firm evidence not only that Wombles exist, but have been around for a very long time. 

I've always had a soft spot for Wombles. In 1978, when I moved to London, began working in Wimbledon, and needed suitable things for the flat I'd bought, my step-daughter A--- presented me with a colourful Womble lampshade, featuring all the main Wombles. I used it for years. Later on I bought an LP, The Best of the Wombles - the very flower of Mike Batt's musical genius - and those wombling songs are now on my phone in mp3 form. I think they stand up extraordinarily well in 2024, and have more substance and relevance than most of the stuff now churned out by Taylor Swift, tortured rap and brat artists, and similar lost souls.  

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Beautiful new pylons

I speak of the T-Pylon, a new design that won a competition organised jointly by the Royal Institute of British Architects and the then government back in 2011. It was to replace the tall, unattractive, skeletal design we have had since the 1920s. Ever since 2011 I have been looking out for these sleek new T-Pylons, and finally spotted a line of them last month at Mark Causeway, when driving between Wedmore and Burnham-on-Sea in Somerset. I stopped to take a shot or two.

They reminded me of a line of wind turbine posts, but with a crossbar at the top, rather than a propeller and generator pod. Plus a neat diamond-arrangement of wires and insulators. 

It was part of a section carrying power from Hinkley Point. The ones I saw became operational early in 2023, and point the way for new installations in the years ahead, if new electricity cables need to be routed over land and not (for instance) put inside tunnels underground. They may also replace the old-style pylons, but only very gradually: I imagine those will be with us for decades to come.

The new government has of course just made its Green Energy announcements. And it's not simply a case of building a few more offshore wind farms. The power generated has to be taken to where it is needed, generally a long distance overland, and new cable capacity will be needed. That means pylons. But pylons like this will be much less of a blot on the landscape than the unloved old ones, such as these at Akenham in Suffolk:

No contest, I'd say. In fact I think the new T-Pylons look pretty good. No, I wouldn't want one at the bottom of my garden; but a line of them half a mile away - and part of the bucolic scene - would be OK. The T-Pylons look nicely-designed and futuristic in a good way. They are less visible than the old sort, and don't use up so much farmland. No doubt they are aerodynamic and can withstand very high winds. And their maintenance should be easier.  

If we are going all-electric to save the planet, I am not going to protest. Pylons are a necessity, and can be regarded as a Good Thing. In any case, the ugly old infrastructure will gradually be dismantled, which will be a gain.

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Bloodthirsty geese

I go down to Chichester Harbour, about an hour's drive westward, at least once a month. I have some favourite destinations on this big expanse of tidal water, with its creeks and channels backed by breezy farmland. Places like Dell Quay and nearby Apuldram; Bosham and Chidham; West Wittering and East Head. And there's West Itchenor.

West Sussex is a posher and more moneyed place than East Sussex, and West Itchenor is one of those West Sussex villages that attracts well-heeled residents more than most. If you want to spend a lot of cash on a big house, especially if you own a boat, then this is most definitely a spot to consider. Not all the houses are the size of a mansion. Some are more modest. The oldest terraced houses in the street that leads down to the quay are normal-sized. But none of them is affordable to people on ordinary incomes. 

I am not envious. I'm happy in my modest home in Mid Sussex. I don't have to keep up an immaculate front. I can cut my own grass. My Council Tax is affordable. I am close to (and can see) the South Downs. Besides, all I have to do, to enjoy places like West Itchenor, is fire up my car and whizz down there. 

I did so a few days back. I wanted to have a good walk, and my local friends had got me an extra little birthday present, a recently-published book of Sussex walks. One of them featured the shore and farmland footpaths around West Itchenor. So having had a nice lunch in Chichester, I drove there, parked Sophie, grabbed my stick, and set forth with this little book in my Barbour jacket pocket. 

The first instruction was to turn into the Yacht Club entrance. I'd not done so on my two previous visits to the village because it looked strictly members-only, and I didn't want to trespass. But it was all right. The way I had to go ran down the side of the clubhouse, and I was surprised how easy it would be to stroll onto the decking and moorings on the Harbour side of the building, as if I were indeed a member. I doubted whether I'd be challenged.

The path then followed the shoreline for a bit, passing the massive posts of a super-stout fence that a resident had recently installed. It must have cost an awful lot.   

For now it was blue sky, fluffy clouds, and bright sunshine; but I was dressed for sudden showers. The path turned a corner, and began to head away from the Harbour between two very substantial properties. Meanwhile, there were serene views of moored boats and private jetties, with trees behind: typical Chichester Harbour scenery.

This was the first of those very substantial properties, the one on my left. It was a very large house, with a very wide rear lawn, and its own jetty, complete with a boat. Very impressive! The only thing it didn't have was privacy. Every footpath-user must peer at this property, and perhaps - like me - take a picture. 

The house on the right of the path had an even more extensive rear lawn, rather longer, so that the house was set back more. The grass was cut to a bowling green standard. I was surprised though that they made do with such a ramshackle fence.

The public path now joined a private road, and trusting the walk book not to lead me astray, I turned left, passing the front of that house with the boat moored at the bottom of its rear garden. It had a crescent-shaped drive, and therefore two entrances. How convenient - just drive in and out, and no need to mess about with reversing.

What a nice house! If you had the money to buy it (or build it) and a family to fill those many rooms, and a boat to moor, what better? 

But should I have been taking these admiring photos? Well, there seemed to be no attempt to hide the house behind gates, or a kink in the drive, or tall shrubbery. Presumably the owners were happy for their neighbours and passers by to see all this, and wouldn't kick up a fuss if a discreet picture or two were taken. As a legal matter, I could of course shoot what I liked, so long as I was standing on a public road and wasn't being an intrusive nuisance. This road was private, but it doubled as part of the New Lipchis Way, one of those official long-distance footpaths, that started in Liphook in Hampshire (where Mum and Dad lived in the 1980s) and ended in West Wittering. That presumably gave me certain viewing rights, so long as I behaved myself.

You'll note the Mercedes and BMW cars on the driveway: standard accessories associated with the well-off. I mean no irony. Of course you'd want a nice car if you owned a property of this calibre. And really the choice of suitable upmarket makes is not that large. What comes to mind? Mercedes and BMW, as here; Range Rover, Land Rover, Audi, Porsche. Volvo wouldn't be out of place, but the conventional list was quite short, and confined to one of the top German makes, with Range Rover as a safe and posh alternative if wanting to be very British. As to colour, something sober but classy: grey, black or silver. Nothing flash or loud, unless the car were a track-ready sports car.

Opposite this big house, an equally imposing residence was being constructed.

I'm assuming this imposing new build was going to be a family home, to justify the size. Even for a couple, a house as big as this would make no sense. Or perhaps it did. After all, the married couple might hate each other, and stayed together only because of the lifestyle they could jointly afford. Money takes the strain out of living, but doesn't necessarily buy happiness.

I couldn't see the point of my owning a large home, just for myself. The cost of upkeep would frighten me. And living in a rich person's colony, with its standards and social codes, had no appeal. 

I followed the road for a bit. More large residences. Although I was definitely out of my league, I found this fascinating. I wondered what lives the residents really led. Well, they all had similar types of car. Here, a BMW and a Land Rover Discovery:

Here, a Porsche and a Land Rover Defender:

Here, a Range Rover, with a RIB tucked away on the drive:

Concentrating on just the houses, these caught my eye:

And here was a new build, another very large house:

Goodness knows how much something like this might cost. Somewhere between three and four million pounds perhaps.

The walking route now left the private road and headed out over fields. I'm usually pretty good following directions, but somehow I took the wrong path and ended up walking further than intended. My right knee began to complain. Eventually I came back to the tip end of West Itchenor. Walking close to the church, I came across this warning notice:

No doubt about it. The geese hereabouts had fangs, and meant to kill. Look at the blood. Of course, geese are renowned as property guardians. If they don't like an intruder - basically meaning anybody at all - they begin to honk and create a dreadful racket. If that doesn't frighten off the intruder, they will then advance on the unfortunate person with necks extended, hissing, a mad glare in their eyes. Failure to withdraw will mean a full-on attack and a gory outcome. No, I wasn't going to mess with a gaggle of geese bent on murder. 

Soon after this point, still disconcerted by the prospect of death by a thousand goose bites, I took another wrong turning. This mistake took me well out my way. I had to retrace my steps, and by then I'd had enough walking for one afternoon. I decided that a refreshing gin and tonic was called for at the village pub, The Ship.

That went down a treat. Revived, I hit the road again in Sophie. It took just over an hour to get home.

I will have to return. I missed half the walk.

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Voting

The deed is done. I was down at the local Polling Station at 6.53am, and found six people there before me. By the time they let us in to vote, the queue had grown to at least twenty people. We're keen voters in Mid Sussex!

The process has become more elaborate in recent times, in that as an extra step you are asked to produce photographic ID to prove it's you. Since this is one of the most important things a citizen can ever do, I think this is entirely appropriate, regardless of any genuine risk of impersonation. The old arrangements were surprisingly lax. 

I didn't hesitate long in the voting booth. I put my cross where I thought it should go and popped the folding voting paper in the box, then left. 

As I came out, the party agents, or at least their helpers, were assembling. I deftly dodged them and walked back to my house. 

It was a lovely sunny morning - certainly an encouragement to get out and vote. My village is not one full of apathetic people who feel indifferent to the electoral process. I should think the local turnout will be high throughout the day. It is, after all, Bungalow City, and stiff with oldies - and senior people will generally insist on having their say. 

Well, tonight we can all settle down at 11.00pm or so for an interesting night. The broad outcome is surely not in doubt, but I am anticipating plenty of upsets and surprises, perhaps even minor excitements. It's like watching a long Grand National race, sans horses and hurdles, just the jockeys in their colours, and of course the rider first past the winning post gets the prize. As in this scene I've composed with Microsoft CoPilot: 

I don't have a proper TV - I'll be viewing the event on my laptop screen, tethered via my phone to Moble Internet. Perfectly good enough; I have more than enough data for it. I'll probably stay up to 2.00pm or even 3.00pm. It's a family tradition anyway, to make a night of it; and even though the 'family' has long been reduced to just me, that's no reason to break with a decades-old tradition. Until 2009, Dad would have been watching with me. I shall imagine him there in spirit. 

I shan't be disappointed when Labour win, because a New Broom is urgently necessary. But I don't expect much from them. They will, thankfully, put some easily-fixed things right. I'm sure they will. But they can't cure some deeper problems in just one term. And I do fear an attempted left-wing turnover if their majority is too large, with unwelcome consequences. 

The Conservatives can make the regretful speeches of the defeated, and then go on holiday to recover. When they reassemble, I hope they will take a long hard look at where they went wrong - who needs to go, and who ought now to be given a chance to rebuild the party into something worth voting for. They need new faces, better brains, and much more heart. They have some very wayward people, and their bad behaviour has pulled the party down. That lesson must be learned. They had become uncaring in a host of ways.  

I don't think the LibDems will get their comeback. They have tried very hard indeed, but I for one haven't been impressed. 

I will watch the fate of Reform UK with some fascination. Plenty of people say they will vote for them, but I think their blunt and attention-grabbing programme is too limited in scope, and I can't see them addressing the myriad of minor but important concerns that always vex the voting population.

The Greens? They might do quite well. Green issues are becoming steadily more pressing. The hurricane presently devastating the Caribbean is yet another reminder that the world's weather has been upset and can only get worse. Personally, I think climate issues (and what to do about them) will swamp everything else within twenty years, and can't be ignored. 

There was a local Monster Raving Looney Party candidate. It crossed my mind to put my X against their name, as a bit of fun, but I thought better of it. General Elections are serious things, with very serious consequences. 

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Relentless pestering by the LibDems

In yesterday's post I had a go at the LibDems' irritating electioneering methods in Mid Sussex. I mentioned being bombarded by fliers pushed through my front door. Such as these, almost daily:

I was out today. When I came home there was a handwritten envelope awaiting me. Oh, what could this be? I didn't recognise the writing. I wondered if it could have something to do with my birthday in five days' time, although the envelope clearly didn't contain a birthday card. I carefully slit it open.

Uuuuuuuh. Another LibDem plea for my vote on the 4th July:

It seems to be a letter that the LibDem candidate has (very neatly) written in her own fair hand, to make her election pitch nice and personal. Then it has been mass-reproduced for distribution. I like her being a female candidate, and I like the sentiment expressed in the letter. I do understand that it has to be a facsimile, reproduced perhaps thousands of times for a small army of party helpers to push through front doors, mine included. I am impressed that the envelope was legibly handwritten, though not of course by the candidate. 

Were this the only personal approach, I would rather warm to this lady. But as it is, coming after a positive welter of pamphlets and fliers, it feels like yet another unwelcome communication. This time, trying something different to secure my X in the right place on the ballot paper. 

I have a notion that I am one of those who are being targeted for their vote, and that quite possibly a LibDem activist - or even the candidate herself - may press my front door bell sometime in the next three days, no doubt at a thoroughly inconvenient moment. 

And if I delay voting on the 4th July, someone from the LibDems may chase me up, and offer me a lift to the polling station in case old-age infirmity is keeping me away. As the LibDem candidate believes it will be a close-run race in Mid Sussex, this is a real possibility. 

I will therefore be queueing up to vote super-early, when the polling station opens at 7.00am, and hopefully be in and out before the LibDem party agent turns up to ask me who I am, and how I have voted. (I'm not telling) 

How glad I am that I don't use any kind of social media! I have little doubt that mass-messaging and mass-polling have been going on there. But I haven't escaped being phoned. Yesterday I mentioned three phone calls from a central London number that I ignored then finally responded to, only to hear a recorded message, to wit, that they were made on behalf of the LibDems, and that I'd be phoned again shortly. Greatly annoyed, I blocked that number. Would you believe it, they have since tried five times to get through to me - unsuccessfully, of course:

My Samsung phone thinks these are spam calls. Absolutely right. I expect further attempts to contact me, up to and including 4th July. Is it a bot, or a real person, trying to speak to me? I hate to think that some poor person on minimum wages and a gig contract has to spend their time phoning a long, long list of numbers, with a spiel or questionnaire ready if the target victim answers. 

The other parties have not, to their credit, pestered me like this. The Labour candidate has simply sent me three leaflets:

He looks like a reasonable guy. However, the centre leaflet describes him as a 'blur drummer'. What's that? A drummer who drums so fast that his hands and sticks are a blur? Or did he drum for Blur, that Britpop band of the 1990s? Let me consult Wikipedia...aha! He was indeed, and still is, the Blur drummer. Not that this is a recommendation. I'm noise-sensitive.

The Reform Party have sent me only one leaflet:

I can't complain about just one leaflet. Reform seem to be doing well hereabouts. I hear that the men of the village are all going to vote for them - or at least the men of the village who discuss the matter over a few pints down at the pub. I can't take Reform seriously. It's a one-person party (i.e. Nigel Farage) with a few headline policies that appeal to the xenophobic and bigoted. Their 'Let's make Britain Great' slogan is horribly reminiscent of Donald Trump's crowd-rousing 'Let's make America great again!'. National greatness - national pride - is so nineteenth-century. It's 2024, the world is heating up, and combined, united, supranational action is urgent. If countries don't stop vying to be top dog there will soon be nothing 'great' to aspire to.  

Who hasn't sent me any leaflets at all? The Conservative Party. The one that will deservedly be thrashed at this election, though I say that with sadness. But at least they have been decently quiet. 

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