Bug Bonanza.

Turns out I wasn't exaggerating after all. My garden is brimming with stick insects. Tis a bug fancier's dream come true. All colours and sizes. I've seen way more than twenty in the last few days. And yes, I have more photos. And yes, I'm going to make you look at them.

They're not quite as animated as the extrovert I met the other day, but some of them clearly have more important things on their minds than entertaining the resident human. Like this happy couple, for instance;

Interesting size difference, I have to say...

I confess I'm a little concerned though that some of them may not be using their natural camouflage skills to their best advantage. If I can spot them from my verandah, three metres away, I reckon so can the birds. And most of them are at hedgehog height. Eek. I know hedgys are visually impaired, but they might be able to sniff them out. Best not to think about that, really;

This one is a little more discreet;

This one, not so much;

And this guy just looks hungover;

You'll be pleased to know he has perked up somewhat. Guess he just had a rough night. I assumed at first that he hadn't moved for days, as that appears to be his spot, but then I realised how presumptuous it was of me to think such things. Who knows what kind of wild adventures stick insects have when darkness falls and there are no humans lurking about spying on them. I feel a little guilty, actually. A bit voyeuristic, even...but, having said that, if I had a night vision camera...

Of course, sticky may not have been off colour at all. He could've just been practicing for when the surf's up...

But anyway, a spider declared he wanted in on the photo shoot, so who am I to deny him his five minutes of fame. He was playing footsie with the hungover sticky. Don't know what that was all about, but rest assured, it was amusing, from my perspective, at least;

And a front on view of another sticky (note the second one just below);

As you can see, their friendship is progressing;

Hopefully this young lass will find a companion soon. The odds are in her favour, I reckon;

Is it just me, or do they look a bit like alligators? With longer legs?  And minus the teeth and personality issues? Not that I've met any alligators in the flesh. I'm sure they probably have a gentle side...one they show to those individuals who don't make them salivate.

Finally--for today, at least--just in case you have always wondered what a stick insect's belly button looks like;

Stick Insect Central.

It's stick insect central at my place. Woohoo! Actually, that might be a slight exaggeration...I have only seen two in the last couple of days, but rest assured they were both noteworthy. And I have the photos to prove it.

I thought the green sticky had expired, but it was only pretending to be dead. Phew. I picked it up with the intention of finding it a more fitting final resting place than the verandah, when it suddenly stuck out its leg. Impressive. I relocated it to a colour coordinated environment, a.k.a. a tree. Without further ado;

The one today really knew how to work the camera. Talk about personality plus. A model model. My kind of sticky. But of course, I like the shy ones too. Here's the extrovert in action...

The "Greetings, Earthlings," pose;

Intrepid explorer reaches the summit;

Another striking silhouette (and I thought my knees were knobbly);

Looks like I'm not the only one prone to exaggeration..."It was this big!";

The daydreamy head in the clouds look;

(PS...if you have nothing better to do, try saying, "stick insect central" ten times in a row. Really fast. Guaranteed to make your brain hurt. Make your friends say it too. Go on. Just for a laugh.)

The delights of misinterpretation.

A friend mentioned that her son was going out to her parent's farm to pick up cones. A source of revenue for his piggy bank. He's saving for a scooter. Nice.

Naturally, I assumed she meant road cones. I wondered why they would have road cones on a farm. Did the sheep need to be reminded to keep left? Or perhaps they used the cones to practice their defensive grazing. Despite being perplexed, my rather visual mind imagined her son stacking bright orange road cones into tidy piles. In the hay barn. He stacked the first bunch too high, though. They wobbled over. Bound to happen.

Then I wondered if my friend meant ice cream cones. Not that likely, I agree, but doesn't it sound fun? Like something Willy Wonkerish? I pictured a field filled with all flavours of ice cream, waffle encased ensembles standing upright like sunflowers, some drenched in hundreds and thousands, others laced with chocolate sprinkles...a few chopped nuts for good measure...what kid wouldn't want to collect those... My sugarcoated fantasy was briefly interrupted when I stood in a cow pat, but then I realised it was just a chocolate puddle, so the uncomfortable oozing sensation quickly became a pleasant one. As for the aroma...mmmmmm...

Then I realised that my friend probably meant pine cones. Doh. Although in my own defence, I was, up until recently, living in post/mid apocalyptic earthquake ravaged Christchurch, where there is a proliferation of road cones, alerting motorists, cyclists and pedestrians to the proliferation of potholes. They are imprinted on my brain. So there.

I have no issues with pine cones. I like them. A lot. They are one of nature's many exquisite designs. But they are nowhere near as exciting as my interpretation. Reality never is. Was an interesting visual journey before I arrived at the pine cone conclusion though.

This is, of course, a reminder that we all see the world differently. And that I am probably more than just a bit odd.

(Disclaimer: My odd thoughts are not prompted by another type of cone. Just in case you are wondering.) 

I wonder if bugs notice my oddness. I would like to know what this fellow is thinking. (Yeah, I know, probably something like, "get out of my face, you freak.");

.

Holly meets the Mafia.

The Rooster Mafia Part Two (Part One is here)

Well I went looking for the mob the other day. Little Red was nowhere to be seen. There was another red rooster though, whom I shall call Big Red. Haven't thought of a name for the grey one yet. They were somewhat more docile than I had envisaged. And they weren't all bachelors.... Big Red has his own harem. A few feathers went flying when I scattered the wheat, but apart from that, things were quite subdued. A black rooster and a white rooster couldn't even be bothered joining in the seed scramble/photo shoot. I didn't take it personally.

Someone is looking after them. Yay. Someone who must have a car, I reckon, judging by the monster sized pile of freshly dug potatoes, well positioned in a shady spot. They even have their own water bowl, with rocks in it. And water too, of course.

This is part of the gang:

Modem mayhem.

I frequently entertain dark thoughts of bashing my faulty modem to a pulp with my hammer. It is not uncommon for me to see, "Error 692: hardware failure in modem", five times in a row. Reinstalling it hurts my fingers. Ouch. Just in case you are wondering, secondhand dial up modems compatible with my fossilised laptop, are hard to come by.

When I mentioned my malevolent urges to a friend, he replied that he had a spare. Naturally, my first thought was, spare modem, or spare hammer? I confess I quite like the idea of pulverising the modem with two hammers. It would be hard to injure my thumbs, like I usually do, if they were both preoccupied with hammer holding.

But then, I am more than a little unco. The hammers might fly out of hands. Other objects do. For no apparent reason.The modem might not be the only one in danger. I think I would need to wear safety glasses. Maybe protective clothing as well... And a helmet... My legs seem to be particularly susceptible to injury, so maybe some shin pads would be called for. In case hammers have any boomerang-like tendencies. And I should probably administer the punishment away from the windows. And do it at a time of the day when mothers aren't walking their children to school, or home again. Wouldn't want the neighbourhood to get the wrong impression of me...

The idea seemed so simple at its inception. Kill the modem. But the plot keeps getting thicker. I have detected another problem with the twin hammer idea. My thumbs would be busy. I would therefore need someone to hold the modem still. I don't expect that it would try to run away, but my rudimentary knowledge of physics leads me to speculate that it might move when I thump it. I don't think any of my friends, being familiar as they are with my unco status, would volunteer to hold the modem... And the vices I possess--or perhaps, the ones that possess me-- would not be helpful in this situation...hmmm...

In summary, I must conclude that acts of grievous bodily harm against inanimate objects require careful planning. Guess that's where that premeditated clause comes in. I'm certain my insomniac brain will be discussing the finer details of modem murder in the wee small hours... yippee... (I blame the friend who put the idea of a two hammered approach in my head. Grr.)

It's RBP time again. Let us put our hammers down and mellow out with this tranquil image. What could be more calming than the sight of a spider hugging a flower. Everybody say, ahhhhhhh;

 

Things that go beep in the night update: A friend from out of town turned up on my doorstep the other day. With her very tall husband. And a substantial stool. Yay! I am no longer being driven insane by my smoke alarms constantly beeping. (There were 18 to 22 seconds between the beeps the other night, around 1am. I know this because, yep, I counted them.) Oh the delights of a beepless existence. Someone oughta do more research into the health effects of noise pollution. 

Things that go beep in the night...

...and all through the day too...

My new flat has lovely high ceilings. Like the ones you find in old houses. Probably because it is an old house. Trouble is, some doofus has put the smoke alarms up there, on the faraway ceiling, where I can't reach them.

Yes, I realise that they are up there so the smoke can reach them, and then they can blurt out a warning message that the house is in danger of burning down. I get that. Smoke alarms are important. Go buy yourself one, if you find yourself alarmless. But...they are beeping at me. Constantly. They have been beeping, in fact, since before Christmas. By my calculations, Christmas was a while ago now. I think they want someone to change their battery. I get that too. Battery changes are important. Otherwise they won't work. Go buy yourself one, if you find yourself batteryless.

But...I can't reach them, to change theirs. I have no furniture to stand on. At least, I have no furniture that it would be wise to stand on. Even if I did, a chair would not be sufficient. A desk to put the chair on, would also be required, along with a reasonable sense of balance. And probably longer legs. None of which I have. The job requires a ladder. Typically, the flat didn't come with one.

I have been unwisely standing on one of those flimsy fold up garden chairs so that I can poke the alarms. (Please don't try this at home.) My poking device consists of an old badminton racket with a long thin piece of metal that broke off of my clothes airer, taped to it. I have to stab the reset button thingy with this implement, while trying not to wobble over. It's a delicate procedure. Especially when wobbling over is something that I am very good at...hmmmm... And if I do this last thing at night, this action only has a limited effect. Invariably the beeping resumes in the wee small hours.

Yes, I have tried burning things. Beneath them. To exhaust the battery. But to no avail. Maybe they don't have enough battery left to read my smoke signals, only enough to complain that they can't. Sometimes they go quiet. Just for a short while. Until I get my hopes up...

They have some sort of banter thing going on too. One beeps, and the other answers. Kinda like birds, chirping to each other, but kinda not like that at all. For some reason, the one in the kitchen chirps louder. Guess it must be the mummy bird... It's quite draining, listening to that constant beeping. Not draining on the batteries though, it seems. How much longer can they last? What if I run out of juice before they do? What if I go completely mad? Maybe they aren't actually beeping at me, but laughing at me...yeah...I thought I detected a slight mocking undercurrent in that last shrill exchange...

I can see the headlines for this predicament too. "Woman's brain fried by fire safety device." Spontaneous combustion is a real phenomenon, isn't it? Surely that would set them off...

If they weren't radioactive, I think I would've smashed them into tiny pieces by now. Except of course that I can't reach them to do that...

There is actually a bird nest in the roof. They make a lot of noise too. Breakfast is early in this house. But they are birds...and I like birds...so that's a racket I can live with. If my assumptions re the avian growth cycle are correct, they will leave the nest soon enough anyway. If only they would take the smoke alarms with...I reckon they would be able to reach them...

Oh well. Let's cheer ourselves up with another RBP (or Random Bug Photo, in case you missed the introduction in my last post). This is the gentle art of wooing, stick insect style;

I yelped with delight when I saw these two acrobats yesterday. I yelped in fright first though cos I nearly squished them. I went to grab the rope they are dangling from as its function is to hold the gate open so I can wheel my bike through it. Obviously they found another purpose for the rope. Ain't they sweet. And they're still there. They have now progressed beyond the hand holding stage, but I won't be posting a picture of that. Bugs have a right to privacy too. Even though they have chosen quite a public place to be private...

The Rooster Mafia

I went for a walk in my new neighbourhood the other day and met a rooster. I'm not used to seeing random roosters, out and about, all on their own, so naturally I felt the need to inquire into his well being. Our conversation went a little like this;

Me: Are you lost, Mr Rooster?

Mr Rooster: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as,"Hey lady, do I look like I need a chaperone?"

Me: You are a terribly handsome fellow.

Mr Rooster a.k.a. Little Red: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as, "Always have been a bit of a chick-magnet. The main rooster in the hen house. Ruffled more than a few feathers in my time, let me tell you." Gaze followed by an almost, sort of, possible wink.

Me: Do you have enough to eat out here?

Little Red: Gazed nonchalantly at me which I interpreted as, "I am a chicken of means, but I have been known to accept bribes. Whatcha got?"

Me: Oh. Um...sorry...I don't actually have any food on me. If I'd known our paths were going to cross, I would've packed some rooster friendly delicacies.

Little Red: The laid back expression persisted, conveying something along the lines of, "Hey, no harm done, just make sure you bring something tasty with, next time you're in the neighbourhood. I'll keep a look out for ya."

Apparently, Little Red is just one of many. Apparently, there is a free range colony living further up the hill. I can't wait to meet them. I am soooo intrigued by the idea of a gang of bachelor roosters. My speculations about their community dynamics have lead me to affectionately give them the title of The Rooster Mafia. I figure that a group of testosterone fueled man birds will have a well established pecking order. A mob leader, whose commands must be obeyed, at all costs. Or else. I bet he gets to crow first. Naturally, those on the bottom rung will have devious plans afoot to over throw the dictator and rule the roost. I imagine it will be kinda like Lord of the Flies, poultry style.

I bought these no doubt fabulous fellows a bag of wheat. Slightly nervous about the idea of feeding them though, truth be told. But perhaps they are used to tasty treats from random humans. They might form a polite orderly line. Or even turn up their noses, so to speak, if they're used to more upmarket offerings. Or...I might get mobbed. Trampled in the stampede. Crushed under chicken foot. Smothered. Suffocated beneath a feather blanket. Not that far fetched, given my spindly disposition, my unco tendencies, and my feather allergy.

Would be kinda funny, I think. I can see the newspaper headlines already... "Woman escapes the perils of an earthquake ravaged city, only to be pecked to death by a mob of unruly roosters." Although that's probably a little wordy for a headline...let's see if I can truncate it a bit... "Quake survivor target of Rooster Mafia hit." The idea amuses me. There are worst ways to go, I'm sure. And far more mundane ways, too.  I'd like to qualify for the Darwin Awards, when the time comes...(Did I just say that out loud...?)

I actually did take a photo of Little Red, but it didn't come out very well, so you will have to imagine how handsome he is. Don't hold back. Instead, I will introduce a new feature of this blog, from now on to be known as an RBP, or Random Bug Photo.

Check out the cuddling cicadas;