Sunday, 28 August 2016

Does My Bum Look Big In This Bucket?

Geese make noise – it's what they do. The trick is to know what the noises mean in the short lexicon of goose communications – hello, put the food down and step away, take another step towards me and I'll have you, touch my goslings and die, hey babe that was the best shag ever. When the geese come up with a new noise, you have to go see, just because...
A very muted hey babe with a hint of put the food down... got my attention. On the far side of the field I could see Chocky and Idris, hunkered down behind an old telegraph pole. As I got closer they were obviously having a cuddle, necks entwined, so I walked away having completely missed the point.
There were other jobs to do so I got on with that – another of those busy days where I was on my own. The sort of day where I don't want geese making funny noises, especially the sort that start to sound like trouble. Hey babe with a hint of put the food down gained a plaintive edge, so I looked again, up close this time because Chocky was clearly not happy about something, and Idris was acting a bit strange...
So, really up close, and Chocky was wearing a bucket. She had stuck her head under the handle on a standard black bucket and, instead of backing out, she had kept going, getting one wing hooked through. I just had to stare for a while, having a serious WTF moment.
Yes, Idris was acting strange – trying to work out how to get his woman out of her new kinky black underwear. I stared at them both, wondering the same thing.
Geese are not cute and fluffy, they are eight or more kilos of feathered psycho and capable of at least a meter of vertical flight if they really mean it. You don't just sidle up to them, say there, there, who's a nice goose, and slip a bucket off. Not without paramedics and an ambulance on standby. And I wasn't just dealing with one goose, there was also a hair-trigger irate gander to handle. Catching Chocky and getting the bucket off with two of us would be a dicey business, but all on my own...
There are times in life when you just have to roll your sleeves up and get stuck in. Then there are goose moments when it's best to go make a pot of tea and think about the problem very carefully. Maybe get your will up to date. Geese have significant non-verbal communication skills to express displeasure. They hit you with their wings, scratch with their claws, bite with a serrated beak that will cut through electrical cable given enough time and concentrated fury.
Think of a goose as being like a wasp. You swat at it, flap your hands, spin in little panicked circles – all that achieves is making the wasp angry and then it just keeps coming back. Now scale that up to a goose. And frankly, a rolled up newspaper is not going to cut it.
I defined my objectives – remove bucket with zero blood-loss and minimal bruising. The first thing to do was separate Idris and Chocky – an angry goose on her own was going to be dangerous enough without her hyper-aggressive boyfriend asserting his right to be the one removing the kinky black underwear.
I set up a basic corral with a narrow gap. The plan was to chase the geese in, close the gate down, watch Idris back out through the gap, and catch Chocky because the bucket made her too wide. Instead, the bucket wedged and Chocky just kept going, all the way through the bucket. I would have been too worried about injuring her to try that.
I had spent a lot of time planning how to catch Chocky, control her wings, stop her using her feet to claw me, and remove the bucket without hurting her. Sometimes good old fashion brute force really is the answer. Job done – and amazingly, zero blood-loss and minimal bruising.

Time for another pot of tea.

Sunday, 31 July 2016

The Moron Exchange

The evening's chores can be a time of amused observation or, in this case, an irritated rant running in my head as I shovel goose poo. My thoughts were circling the EU Referendum and the regular festival which I both dislike and cherish, and I call it the Moron Exchange.
So, confession up-front, I am a reluctant brexit supporter. According to all the analysis I have come across in the media, I ought to be a remainer, other than the fact that I live in Cornwall which overall voted for out.
As a brexiter I am apparently worried about immigration and deeply opposed to freedom of movement. Send all those immigrants home... Err... no. So my great-great-grand parents don't count as immigrants, do they – Britain ruled all of Ireland back then.
Freedom of movement within the EU strikes me as no worse than the natural freedom of movement within the UK – giving us cities in the north with empty houses, and over-crowding in the south-east. You can't blame people for heading to the places where they think the money and the jobs are.
Personally, I blame successive governments for not addressing the economic imbalance, but the freedom of movement is something I support. Otherwise we are back to medieval serfdom - you want to go to the next county? Put your hand up and say 'please, sir' and I'll consider it.
As a brexiter I am sure that the UK will be able to make much better use of all the money we have been sending to the EU. Err... no. I won't be holding my breath on that one.
Of course, I naturally believe that we will be freed from the burden of excessive regulation... or not. Take cover, winged pigs incoming. Bureaucrats and their love of regulation is not a special, EU phenomenon. And relax about the pigs, because I am sure there are regulations on their minimum altitude and safe-flying.
Getting desperate here, but surely I am going to be so much better off outside the EU? At the time of the referendum, my suspicion was that I would be worse off with brexit, and the post-referendum fall-out just reinforces that view, but I am still a brexiter.
Starting to run out of big issues now... so why not vote remain? My problem with the EU, one of the issues barely touched on from what I saw, was the relationship between the European Parliament and the European Commission. It feels to me like the tail wagging the dog. The Eurocrats, as they've been dubbed, determine policy, the MEPs apply the rubber stamp, and that troubles me.
Over a serious number of centuries in the UK, we have gone from absolute monarchs to a parliamentary democracy (please pardon the up-coming fast-and-loose analysis of history – I'm a physicist). Go back a handful of centuries and Parliament was still just there to do the Monarch's bidding (according to several monarchs of the period) and if they chose not to then Parliament was invited to think again. Or a few members were imprisoned and asked to think again. Or accused of treason and asked to think again. Or executed as an example to the others who could then think again. Or, if all else failed, Parliament got dissolved and the Monarch went it alone. Now, the Eurocrats don't do the imprisoning, false trials and such like, but if the EU Parliament doesn't apply the rubber stamp, they get invited to think again.
So which is better, a trained, professional, expert Eurocrat, or an MEP whose only qualification is they got enough votes? I've been a technical expert myself, and I wouldn't trust me as the final arbiter of how things should be done, other than the seriously technical and unequivocal ones such as which way round the batteries go. Equally, you can find examples of elected officials who shouldn't be allowed out without parental supervision. Frankly, you can get a dangerous moron either way around, but my personal preference is for the elected official.
All of this brings me round to my Moron Exchange – or the election in more formal parlance. With elected officials determining, debating and deciding you can still get the most awful outcomes, but if it is that bad, and enough people agree how bad it is, then in a few years time you can fire those elected officials and pick a new moron to screw up your life. The Eurocrats come up with the best policies, the expert policies, and they take away the fundamental, unwritten right in a democracy – the right to vote for a less perfect solution because you feel like it. After all, if the bureaucrats were fully in charge I probably wouldn't be allowed to chose something detrimental to myself even if I signed waivers agreeing that I knew I was doing something against the expert advice.
I like the whole concept of the EU, but until it is governed via the Moron Exchange, I will be a brexiter. Anything else is just tyranny in disguise.


Thursday, 30 June 2016

Small Memories

It's British Summer Time, the sun is shining... that can't be right. Where's my rain-coat? I do have an umbrella up to protect me from the heat... floral pattern, frilly edges, probably chosen by my grandmother. I've had this umbrella ever since Granddad died, and I have it for several reasons: my grandmother didn't want it any more, it keeps the sun off, and it reminds me of my grandparents.
I don't have any photos of them – not due to some sad mishap, but because I don't really do photos. I have no pictures of my family around the house, never had any on the desk at work, sometimes added one to the screensaver on the computer, but really, I don't do photos. My partner is the one for photos – we have a camera which I use very occasionally, and she takes everywhere – even just feeding the sheep, because one might do something fun, or tonight's sunset could turn out to be particularly splendid, or just... because.
We do have photos that I rather like. There's the late Bitsy somehow curling his fluffy bulk into the lid of an A4 copier paper box, or my partner holding up two amazing onions from our first veg crop at the last house. Somewhere, there is a picture of a grumpy little tortoiseshell cat, one of the first rescue cats we took on. My partner caught her in mid-air, catching a ping-pong ball – not bad for a cat who could barely walk when we first got her. The thing is, I don't often see the actual photos, but something else around the house will remind me of them, like the distinctive t-shirt my partner was wearing as she held up those onions.
Instead of photos, I have family heirlooms, miscellaneous junk, and an old sun umbrella with some scrap 22mm copper pipe on the bottom half meter of the spike – Grandad put that there to protect the paint when it is pushed into the ground. Sitting here, under the umbrella, I see my grandmother on the beach at Eastbourne, or on the lawn at home, shaded from the sun, sitting in a cushioned folding chair (floral pattern again, currently in the shed.)
In the cupboard, in the kitchen, there are two elderly half-pint glasses, two different styles, both cracked and chipped, both still in use... and they belonged to my grandparents. Just getting them out to use is a small reminder of their kitchen and summer visits.
We have a pair of old duvet covers – so thin and threadbare that they are generally only used to act as a liner for the main cover. Green-and-white stripes, pink-and-white stripes, both made for me by my mother when I went to university. We keep using them because we both hate to throw something out until it is completely beyond repair, and for me it is a reminder of my parents - driving to Reading, navigating from the motorway to the University, not even knowing at the time that my father spent time at Brock Barracks on the other side of town when he did his National Service.
Dotted around the house, particularly in the kitchen, is a rag-tag of old bits and pieces from my family. Years back there were more, but wear-and-tear means some are no longer usable, because these are not trinkets to keep on the mantelpiece or in the back of a drawer, but everyday things, and everyday reminders, a sampling of my past.

Small memories, but so much brighter than a photograph.

Friday, 24 June 2016

Twitter In The Pit

I'm on my second Twitter account – I deleted the first one out of sheer frustration, but this time it is going to be different. I was persuaded to take part in a Twitter pitch party (Dan Koboldt - #SFFPit), and so returned to Twitter. I was a software engineer, so I'm sure that if I put some time into it, this Twitter thing can work for me. I could even tweet my blog posts...

So a Twitter pitch party... wow. After the challenge of packing a pitch for a book into less than 140 characters, there is the eager waiting to be noticed... and more waiting... and more waiting... and lets go and read a few more of other people's pitches and...

How do the agents and publishers do this? After reading a page or so my head hurt, and that was a tiny fraction of the total. I would be begging for a different job – but then perhaps they have the necessary skill and experience to cope.

So the #SFFpit was a bit of a bust in terms of responses, but still an interesting experience. Followed a day later by #PitchCB...

So, here I am, Twittering again, and I think it sort of works, except when I follow someone trying to sell stuff. It's like a salesman, not just with his foot in the door, but nailed to the doorstep, a constant flood of... No. Let's not go there. I will master Twitter. It will work for me...


And there's another pitch party coming up. Time to start thinking in less than 140 characters.

Tuesday, 31 May 2016

Baby Be Mine

It's lambing time again – cue lack of sleep, the amazing range of birthing and mothering problems and, of course, cute lambs.  Although, to put it into context, we are only lambing four ewes, so far less chance of things going wrong.  Surely no chance of something new and wacky...

Ewe number five... Cilla is not pregnant, she is just old.  In reality, Cilla was born old, but now she definitely has a lot of years under her fleece.  She's an amiable old baggage with a history of being lamb-tolerant, whereas most nursing ewes will vigorously discourage other lambs.  In previous years we have had the Mama flock, off grazing and getting some peace from the lambs, with Cilla minding the lamb flock, following on behind at a leisurely pace until the moment of frantic baaing for the milk bar.  So we put her in with the pregnant ewes because as her year count has gone up, her tooth-count has hit zero and she needs feed supplements over winter and spring – so much easier to include her with the ones already getting extra.

The real complication this year is that when the first lamb was born, my other half was away, so it was just me dealing with Treacle Pie, one of our first-time mothers. The actual birth was perfectly smooth, lamb cleaned up and suckling, and Aunty Cilla watching over everything, even making the little coughing, whickering noise that ewes use to say hello to the new-born.

Then it all went a bit pear-shaped.  Treacle Pie was having twins and once number two was out, it was obvious that Cilla was doing more than just keeping a watchful eye on the beginner.  She had decided that it was her lamb and Treacle Pie was so busy fending off the cradle-snatcher that she was abandoning the second lamb.  This is a very important time for the lambs – bonding with mum, learning to stand, learning to suckle, and getting that vital first belly-full of milk (technically colostrum) loaded with antibodies from mum to help kick-start the immune system, and growth factors to promote gut development.  This is the lamb's Olympic hurdle race final – one chance for a medal, no prizes for missing a hurdle, no re-run.

Treacle Pie and Cilla - I'm sure this one is mine.





Our Soay ewes generally take themselves away from the rest of the flock to give birth, and keep their distance for the first couple of days – the essential bonding period where lamb learns who mum is and vice-versa.  Treacle Pie didn't.
We have seen something similar with pregnant ewes close to giving birth – someone else's lamb arrives and all the cues of sound and scent gets them confused enough that they think it must be theirs.  A few years ago we had three lamb on the same day and number one set off the other two – spinning on the spot to find their lamb, and we finally had three ewes chasing the very confused lamb around the field to claim it.  In the end, we managed to get mother and lamb penned inside a ring of hurdles and blankets draped over to break the line of sight – that took two of us and a lot of time.

Now, Cilla hasn't had a lamb for a few years – she is just too old and another pregnancy would put too much strain on both her, and us, to maintain the right levels of feed and general support.  Even so, she decided that the miracle had happened.  A lamb, all hers, and without all that aggro of pregnancy and giving birth...

With two people, it would have been easy to separate lamb and wannabe-mother.  On my own... Cilla is old, but seriously determined.  I needed two hands to grab her and haul her off, at least another hand to pick up the abandoned lamb, and a further hand with a very long arm to shut gates...

I caught Cilla – imagine the equivalent of water-skiing on grass as she dragged me along in spite of digging my heels in.  Cilla is knee-high and that gives her serious advantage in a tugging match.

The other side of the solution was to coax Treacle Pie into an enclosure of hurdles.  The trouble is, she knows what that means – worming, vaccinations, all manner of unpleasant or undignified treatment that no self-respecting ewe will tolerate.

It took a program of deception, sheep psychology and serious shoving.  I opened a gate to an empty field, and then Treacle Pie was prepared to go into the hurdle enclosure, because there was a clear exit on the far side.  Cilla was moved to the far side of  the gate with the rest of the pregnant ewes – cue more turf-skiing – and then the balancing act, holding Cilla with one hand, standing on one leg, teasing at the gate with my fingers...

Once that was done I had time to do the other essential – take photos of the new lambs.  And a short video of Cilla, the other side of the gate, shouting for her lamb.

It all settled down within a day or so.  Cilla is still convinced that one or both of the twins is hers.  For their part, the twins are perfectly content with two mothers, and are very clear which one is the pillow and which is the milk-bar.
Opal has now given birth to a ewe lamb, Mouse and Fuzzy are still pending, but soon enough we fully expect to see the split flock again – mothers off for a graze, Aunty Cilla minding the lambs, everybody very clear who supplies the milk.

There are lots of golden rules for keeping sheep.  The first and most important one we were told was that a lamb is a suicide trying to happen.  No one mentioned the other important, top golden rule – whatever crazy stunts the sheep have pulled in the past, there is always a new surprise coming.


After the storm... Do I have to choose one?  I like it here in the middle.

Saturday, 30 April 2016

Greener Grass

The grass is greener. Forget the other side of the fence thing, my grass is greener. Or greener than it was last week, and showing hints of growing.
Before we moved to Cornwall, I wouldn't have cared, if I had even noticed, but the state of the grass matters here. I know us Brits are supposed to always talk about the weather, but around here, at this time of year, it goes something like:
Nice bit of sun today. So far, so normal. The grass isn't growing yet. And that really is normal here, and probably any other rural area.
We moved here from Berkshire, a rural(ish) location only a five minute drive from the motorway. We had a large(ish) garden, large enough that we confused estate agents when we were house hunting. In estate agent speak, large garden meant move more than three paces before walking into a fence. Apparently what we were looking for was acreage. We ended up with less than a fifth of an acre, so really just the large garden we told them we wanted – but it still counted as acreage.
Now we really do have acreage. Double-digits worth of acreage, with grass growing on it, sheep eating the grass, and our own involvement in the seasonal conversation. The grass is greener now the weather is picking up...
Grass is important here. Grass is a major part of the livelihood for a lot of people in a rural, farming area. At the end of a slow, lingering winter, with spring yet to get really serious and hay supplies dwindling (or completely gone in our case) the livestock need something to eat. Whether the grass is growing, whether the colour is green or yellow, whether it might pick up this week, or whether there's enough there to turn livestock out... its all part of the routine of conversation because it matters.
Later in the year it will still about about grass and weather. Yes, there will be debates on how well this years lambs came out or how the price of calves is doing, but the big one will be grass and weather. Is is too wet so the grass is struggling, or too dry so the grass won't grow? Will there be a long enough break in the rain to cut for hay, or will the sun bake the grass so dry before cutting that the hay is barely worth having.
Even after that, the grass/weather combo goes on. Given a perfect and hot haymaking, those of us who still use square bales will be rejoicing at how light they are. If you are stacking hundreds of bales, by hand, heavy ones versus light ones make a huge difference to how long you can keep going. Or if the weather has been wet, then people are talking about how they had to do haylage this year – those huge, cylindrical, plastic-wrapped jobs – because there was no way to get the grass to dry properly.
Grass and weather, two of the biggest topics of conversation. You won't believe it, probably won't understand it, unless you have lived in a farming community. Grass and weather, good or bad, the difference between eating or not, making a living or not, keeping going or going under.
So, the good news is that my grass is greener, but it would have been better if it had been greener a few weeks back. But the weather's just not been up to it...
There I go again, and I'm only a hobby farmer...


Saturday, 26 March 2016

Why Me?

Why Me?

I mean that in a good way. Mostly.

I was feeding the sheep, as you do, and watching all the eager noses pushing through the fence... me, me, ME... and I had one of those random, sideways thoughts: when I applied to be a PhD student, why did they pick me? The question never occurred to me at the time, but now it did – with so many able applicants chasing the available places, why did they pick me?

I'm sure the question harks back to that stereotypical childhood experience – being picked last to be on the team. I wasn't that kid, because there were three of us, which makes for an interesting social dynamic. Out of the three, who gets picked first?

With the benefit of many years distance, my next thought was the balanced inequity – the guys picking the team had no choice, because everyone had to be on a team, so they had to pick out the least worst...

But really, how did I feel at the time? Was I blighted by being in the last three? Did I care whether or not I was the worst of the worst? I don't really recall, other than not wanting to be picked at all – the unavailable option.

On the threshold of moving up to the junior school I was excited, because they played the magical and enticing football. And then, the day came, when I experienced football... seriously? Is that it? I doubt that I was familiar with the expression WTF at the time, but I think that sums up my feeling. Me and sports did not mix. Oil and water, with someone tossing matches at the stuff floating on top.

The unexpected, instinctive antipathy created a negative feedback loop – I didn't want to play, I was no good because I didn't want to be, and the unlucky captain who had to pick me would put me somewhere well away from anything interesting to minimise the damage. And then roll on a few years: rugby, ditto; hocky ditto; field athletics was the lesser evil when faced with the prospect of cricket...

In spite of that, I came out unscathed, didn't I... except... I left school with A-levels and an offer of a place from five universities. I got a degree and was offered a place to study for a doctorate. I got that, and then a job, and a promotion, and another job, and... A solid history of the 'team leader' picking me, of 'team leaders' squabbling over who got me on their team. Forget why me, say hello to make me a better offer...

A solid history of success, of being picked first... and then seeing all those eager sheep noses and suddenly wondering why me? Perhaps not so unscathed after all.

Saturday, 27 February 2016

Chickens In The Dark

I watch the news and just at the moment there is nothing but shouting – the UK is better off in Europe, Donald Trump is the scariest Republican Presidential candidate, global warming is going to get you, unless the obesity pandemic does it first. It's enough to make me go out and feed the chickens for some peace and quiet...

Like that's going to work.

Chickens are just the same as politicians, forever arguing, shouting, pooping indiscriminately and maintaining their pecking order. The only real difference is that when a chicken lays something it becomes breakfast, not the morning headlines. The only time the chickens are quiet is in the shed, at night, after dark, and even then there's the occasional cockerel rehearsing for first light.
I dare say it would be more interesting if our politicians established their hierarchies the way chickens do – a solid smack of beak between the shoulders, feathers ripped out, or bloodshed if it gets serious. Just imagine Prime Minister's Questions starting with a coin-toss to choose between Queensberry Rules or something more Mixed Martial Arts and primal. Bring back John Prescott, round one, seconds out...

And then turn the lights off.

If I have to turn the lights on in the shed after dark, a senior hen might discover that she is accidentally perched next to a very junior chicken. That requires instant correction, and a savage pecking until the junior jumps down and finds somewhere else, or I turn the lights out again when it goes quiet.

There's the thing – they're all just chickens in the dark. Superiority has to be seen to be maintained. After all, if the junior hen can't see, and doesn't know that she's been pecked by a senior, she might peck back, she might prove to have the harder peck...

All chickens are chicken in the dark.

If only I could test it on politicians. Turn the lights off for a few hours. Find out if it all goes quiet.

Turn them back on and see who is sitting next to the man with killer right hook.

Monday, 25 January 2016

Another Slice Of Fruitcake?

We just watched a repeat of a Horizon meta-documentary – probably the right term for a documentary of documentaries – pulling together excerpts from Horizon documentaries over the last forty years on ageing and immortality. Why watch it again? Two reasons – firstly, we didn't realise we had seen it before until at least five minutes in; secondly, by five minutes in it was really rather interesting.

And then there were the fruitcakes and nut-jobs. People stuffing themselves with random spoonfuls of chemicals that had some association with longer life-spans, or diets with links to reduced ageing, or even the pure(?) charlatanry of injecting 'beef broth' into the buttocks to be younger. Now, I'm pretty sure the arse full of beef broth brigade definitely falls into the fruitcake and nut-job category, but what about the others?

Calorie restriction seems to be well documented to in some way retard ageing. I've tried it, briefly, in the form of the 5:2 diet, in the interests of weight-loss, not living forever. However, it seems there are people out there who are really using it to try to live longer. Does that make them fruitcakes or nut-jobs?

From a practical point of view, even if calorie restriction really did guarantee a longer life, it makes you feel like crap. That has an uncomfortable association with those who campaign for the right to die, because their lives are so painful or degrading. Who in their right mind wants to live so much longer, whilst experiencing the perpetual hunger of calorie restriction? It does not seem like a viable prospect for most people, but does that make the practitioners fruitcakes and nut-jobs?

One side-effect of the interest in calorie restriction, presumably driven in part by the efforts of the alleged fruitcakes and nut-jobs, was a genuine scientific study to identify the mechanism underlying the apparent effect. Not only did they find a mechanism, they found Resveratrol, which had the potential to trigger it without the calorie restriction. Resveratrol (you can buy the stuff from all sorts of places now) was so promising that in 2008 GlaxoSmithKline paid $720 million for the company controlling the rights... and the hunt for immortality goes on.

So it seems to me that alleged fruitcakes and nut-jobs serve an important purpose. They are the crazies who don't just dream of doing the impossible, but inject beef broth into their arses or try to live forever on lettuce, and deranged as they seem, at the very least they lure saner, more methodical heads into the same pursuit. Our society is replete with medical and technological advances, but how many of those owe something of their existence to the goading effect of fruitcakes and nut-jobs?

So finally, the fruitcakes and nut-jobs... how do we define them? We can't call them crazy, or deluded or anything else, because they might be right. And if it does turn out that they were right, they become visionaries and pioneers. Nobody wants to be the fool calling them names.

You are all welcome to your fad diets and miracle-cures, but please, have a little respect for the fruitcakes and nut-jobs – some of them might be responsible for you living longer. The ultimate vindication, if it comes... I told you so.

Monday, 14 December 2015

Goose Step

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting thick... no, that's wrong... the goose was always thick.

Goose intelligence comes in standard sizes, S, XS, XXS, XXXS, and then the gander sizes, XXXXS, XXXXXS, XXXXXXS, XXXXXXXS... as exemplified by our gander, Idris, Avian Professor of Applied Stupidity at the University of Utter Muppet.

It's a by-product of their down-trodden up-bringing... unless that's just the first symptom. Geese do not have the greatest eyesight. I'm sure it's optimised for something, and they can certainly find a pile of grain in poor light, but what they miss is the stuff right under their beaks. Like goslings. Fortunately, the average gosling is physically robust, because the parents stand on them. Frequently. It's like something out of a cartoon – one big, webbed goose foot covering the gosling – just tiny toes, wing-tips and beak poking out, and screaming for help.

The screaming is counter productive. Geese are intensely protective of goslings. I have had Idris perform a vertical take-off, over a four-four high barrier, because one of his offspring was doing the frantic hey dad, look what I found... which sounds exactly like help, help, the bad man is threatening me. The trouble is, once dad is standing on junior, and the screaming starts, dad holds his ground looking for the bastard threatening junior...

Then junior grows up – whatever little brains it started with squeezed out by parental pressure. And, just when you don't think a goose can be any more stupid...

All of a sudden, Idris can't walk through the gate in the evening. It's the same gate, the same path to the shed where they go over-night, and I have the pot of grain in my hand as usual, and Idris just stops. Chocky and Honk (his missus and his bit on the side), are just behind, following his lack of leadership, another fine example of goose stupidity, because they are both definitely smarter than him.
So Idris paces left and right, checks-out the gate, then the adjacent gate which isn't open, tries the back of the stables, the gap that leads to food and the fox-resistant shelter... no... can't go through there... not like last night... or the night before... or before that... The only change in the scenario is the light level dropping as the winter evenings draw in... but the geese can find a pile of grain in near darkness...

So I have to go through and herd them forwards, because once Honk and Chocky start crowding him, Idris goes through, charges down the path, into the shed, threatens me with groin-level violence because the grain isn't down yet...

This all begs the question – why do we go to the trouble of keeping geese? And why do we traditionally (before the invention of turkey) eat them at Christmas? Exasperation? Frustration? Get through that gate you little ###### or it's the chop for you...

It's not fair to call geese bird-brained. Not fair at all. The chickens are quite smart.