web analytics

Friday, May 25


May 25, 2007 — 11:32 pm
Comments: 2

An embarrassment of mustelids


We visited Wildwood Trust today, an animal sanctuary outside Canterbury. Not the best in some ways, but the staff is friendly and it’s awfully heavy on mustelids, so we like it. Stoats, weasels, badgers, otters, pine martens, pole cats. One elderly graying mink, who slept splayed out on top of his cage box like he didn’t give a shit, which he didn’t.

I saw my first real, live stoat here. His name was Socrates (“Soccy” to his friends) and he came out and did the weasel dance for us that day and everything. It’s one of those golden weasel memories. We went back to visit Soccy many times.

Of actual weasels, we saw hide nor hair. Not that day, nor any other. (Well, they’re all weasels to me. Brits call regular sized weasels “stoats,” and only the little teeny ones “weasels”). Anyway, the teeny ones always hid from us, even at feeding time (now with extra bunny asses!).

Today, Soccy’s cage was full of weasels! Well, two. Curled up in a happy sleepy funtime weaselball behind the glass wall of the hidden lair.

Get the size of these guys! Fully grown, they aren’t much bigger than mice. This little vicious killer dude could curl up and nap in a teacup.

Soccy, alas, has gone on to that great Weaselheim in the sky. We asked.

Got some great pictures of the lynxes (which are new, I think) and the wolves, who howled for us prettily when an ambulance went by. And the harvest mouse (surely, they must be on the sixth or seventh harvest mouse by now). The Scottish wild cats have had themselves an adorable vicious psycho killer kitten (beautiful and famously untameable, those things. They look like big stripey housecats and think like Ted Bundy). I started to post more pictures, but this blog isn’t a particularly good gallery.

Anyhow — farewell, Soccy! I lift my glass of…whatever the hell this is I’m drinking.

He was a stoat. The very stoat. The stoatiest of stoats.

— 7:05 pm
Comments: 24

Booze of the Day: Bellini

It can’t be champagne every day. Oh, no. Sometimes, it’s only sparkling wine.

B had one of these with a client and thought it was very nice. It’s a Bellini: prosecco, an Italian sparkling wine, and peach juice. For the record, two parts prosecco and one part peach juice (or peach pureé). A couple of raspberries or strawberries floating in it is very nice, too. Refreshing on a hot day.

Something about this nagged at me, until I realized…I blogged this cocktail last Thanksgiving.

Yes, it’s true. Even I learn things from S. Weasel.

I stole the photo from a United Airlines press release and stuck a weasel on it. Because theirs was nicer than mine. My photo showed too much of the sad kitchen detritus of drunken mustelids on holiday. And theirs had peaches!



— 12:00 pm
Comments: 3

Shapnots: Botolph’s Bridge


Eep! It’s enough to drive you to drink, this sign. It’s monks, burying the body of St Botolph at midnight.

Or, as we have taken to calling him, St Butt-Elf. Because, all things considered, we’d rather go to hell together.

Botolph was born in the 7th Century…sometime. He died in 680 and was buried in the foundation of the church he founded in Icanho. Wherever Icanho is. Nobody knows. In 970, King Edgar moved his remains to Burgh. In 1020, Cnut moved them to Bury St Edmunds. Later, parts of him were moved to Thorney, parts of him to Westminster Abbey, and his head was taken to Ely.

Not surprisingly, he’s the patron saint of travel.

Botolph led to Botolphston led to Boston. Uh huh. Weasel don’t make this up.

— 1:00 am
Comments: 4