AS I write, the new Ice Age has temporarily receded and we are back to the grim grey quagmire of the more traditional British winter.
Monday January 18 was apparently the most miserable day of the year – the day when the Christmas hangover comes home to roost in a physical, financial and emotional sense and the New Year's resolutions evaporate in a fugue of procrastination. But apa
rt from that it's alreight – for sparrows.
Having weathered the Arctic temperatures our erstwhile starving feathered friends should now find there is no shortage of snap available. Bread in particular.
Because, like vacuous squirrels, folks have been buying in huge supplies and hoarding it. For absolutely no reason whatsoever, as soon as the loaves left the bakery the supermarket shelves were emptied in a selfish orgy of panic. People who would have normally stayed at home braved the sub-zero temperatures and black ice to stagger back stuffed to the gills with Hovis and Warburton.
In the Dearne Valley, there will be freezers stuffed with the stuff. Pantries, bedrooms and cellars will be groaning under the weight of stale medium-sliced Sunblest. Along with the sacks of rock salt stolen in midnight heists from council stockades, the 15 years supply of cat
litter, and the 50 litres of milk bought in "Fo't babeh".
So it will be jettisoned into the eco-system and we will soon have the most obese population of wild birds on the planet. And rather than fighting over scraps, the starlings and spuggies will be discussing the relative merits of wholemeal, multigrain or rye.
