Tag: Pelicans

February 5

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Our walks in St. James’s Park are regularly punctuated by stops to admire the six pelicans who usually spend their time on the paths where walkers gasp to see the bird with the second-largest wing span in the world strolling companionably beside them. Sometimes, for a change, one of them will Clamber up onto a bench to sit nonchalantly next to a nervous admirer. And on days when they are not feeling gregarious, they may all make do with sunning themselves on their rock in the middle of the lake.

During our past few walks we have seen only one of them – is it Isla, Tiffany, Gargi – or one of the recent additions – Sun, Moon or Star ? We have no idea. But we do know we’re seeing the same one each time – the pinkest one- and we are truly anxious as to what has happened to the others.

We make up tragic stories:

All the others have migrated to the warmth and this one is left alone and pining.

The others have had some devastating accident and this one will have to build a life for itself without its family.

This one has been ostracised by the others – too pink, perhaps – while they make a new home for themselves down the road in the lush gardens of Buckingham Palace.

Generations of pelicans have lived in the park since the Russian Ambassador presented the first birds in 1664 and the idea of their no longer being around is truly upsetting.

Eventually, I can stand the speculation no longer (I have talked in this blog before about the difference between “The Writer”, who would rather have a good story, and me, who would rather know the truth. Fiction versus documentary.)

I ask one of the army of gardeners preparing the park for Spring. (Planting and burgeoning is going on all around us, flower beds being laid out, trees sprouting their first shoots of green and snowdrops dotting the ground.

The true story, of course, turns out to be more prosaic than any of our attempts at High Tragedy: There is a pandemic of Avian ‘flu raging, so the birds have been Locked down in order to avoid infection. They are isolating in a small house on an island in the lake and taking their daily exercise swimming in its small private pool.

So why is this one bird left at the mercy of the virus ?

It turns out our renegade peli. has evaded all attempts at catching him and quarantining him with the other because he, alone of the gang, is able to fly far and fast enough to outwit his keepers. Far from being unhappy and alone as the hero or of our fantasies, he is free to roam the park while the other five are confined to barracks for the foreseeable future, no more to relish the click of camera shutters or preen themselves to star in a thousand selfies.

“The Writer” is right, of course, the stories were better.

But when we discover that the birds turn pink in Spring when they’re ready to mate – and look at the blushing bird remaining at liberty, there is scope for a whole new series of tragedies about the sad pelican who is ready for love but will never, never find it because of lockdown.

May 6

~ coronet22 ~ 2 Comments

Seven weeks ago, while passing the pelican cabaret in St. James’s Park, “The Writer” and I were discussing Covid-19.

“Absolutely the only way to be a hundred percent safe”, I suggested , assuming it was a preposterous idea, ” is to lock oneself in and not come out until there is a vaccine”

“Right, said my husband, “Then that’s what we’ll do.” And that’s what we did. We have depended on food deliveries, seen two people on neighbouring terraces, talked to groups of friends and our trainer on Zoom and FaceTime, and exercised both in the house and by walking up and down the terrace. We have not been outside our front door since that day.

We agreed then, that if one of us feels strongly about something Covid-related, the other would go along with it, and my husband felt, and continues to feel, very strongly, that we should keep ourselves as safe as possible. Most of our friends take advantage of their daily exercise but they are not in London. And things are undoubtedly worse in London.

What we never did on that first day, was agree our criteria for going out into the world again. I’m not talking about the Government’s easing of Lockdown. That’s irrelevant. We, not the government, decided we would not take our hour’s exercise outside and we, not the Government, must decide when we are prepared to change our own rule.

When I first broached the idea, a few weeks ago, that we should discuss our exit strategy, my husband said that, for him, it would be when the hospitals were not so pressured as to be on the point of collapse, that there should be spare capacity in Critical Care units and that the death rate should be falling.

I felt this was reasonable and agreed.

It seems to me these criteria have now been more or less met and I would like to go out. My husband doesn’t feel they have, is perfectly happy exercising on the terrace and can’t understand my urgency. I realise that “I just want to go out now” is not a convincing argument but I am worried he may be nearing the foothills of agoraphobia.

I point out to him that there is no need for both of us to go out. I am perfectly happy to walk in the park or round the streets on my own – in fact would rather do so. He is a few years older than me, therefore slightly more at risk. He is male, therefore slightly more at risk and he is naturally a more anxious person – though I’m bad enough. I would far rather go alone than be responsible for making him feel uncomfortable or nervous. I’m pretty anxious myself but I can deal with that.

I’m sorry to put this pressure on him but now I worry that if we don’t take the plunge, there may never be a reason to go out again.

But there is our pact to consider. If I continue to cajole, leave optimistic statistical reports lying around the house, chat, casually, about our friends’ happy excursions into local shops, I’m breaking it by emotional blackmail. And suppose I persuade him to go out and the worst happens, and he catches it and is terribly ill or worse, it would be my fault and I couldn’t live with that. And, if he did suddenly agree, would I panic and be too scared to open the front door?

To sum up: I can’t break the Marital Pact. So welcome to another few weeks(?), months(?), years(?), of this Lockdown blog.

Meanwhile, I think I’m staying relatively sane, compared to some!

March 13

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“The Writer”, wakes up dizzy and with a sore throat. The trouble with people with vivid imaginations is that they tend to imagine whatever’s uppermost in their mind at the time. Friends who have been staying at their son’s new house in Scotland to help with house painting, are trying to decide whether to stay up there or come home to London . The house is in the middle of nowhere so they’d be mad to come home, though I’ll ‘miss’ them, illogical when I won’t be able to see them either way. We’re still walking daily in the park, feeling every time we close the front door behind us that going out is a transgressive and, therefore, thrilling act. Today, the Pelicans who live on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, have put on a show for the tourists, who seem to be reluctant to return to wherever they came from. The huge, lumbering birds land on one of the park benches, chosen for its position facing the sun, and look benignly at the tourists still gathering in large tight-knit groups, ooh-ing and ah-ing and taking selfies with the uncomplaining creatures.

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