I climbed into the hammock with even more zeal than that of the the committed hammock naturalist. It had been a demanding morning. I had been at the Diss Cover Book Festival – at Diss in Norfolk, where else? – and I was  breaking in my talk. The one to mark the publication of my new book.

The book is all about flight and I was now defying gravity myself, suspended above the base earth while a blackbird sang very close. He might even have been in the ash above me, the tree to which the head end of the hammock is attached.

He was a fine singer. It would have been nice to think that my own performance had gone as sweetly. His involved pure melodic whistling mixed with a few coarser motes just to make the rest sound sweeter. He had the sense to pace his discourse: the confidence to be slow when slowness was required, to leave pauses, to allow his audience in and then make allies of them.

It seemed to go all right. My bit, I mean, not his, he was an acknowledged master. I wished I could rival his effortlessness: so perfectly achieved that his audience really believe he’s taking no special trouble, simply being himself. No hint of uncertainty: a voice like a musical instrument, used thoughtfully and intelligently, giving his absolute all without anybody being aware he was doing so.

They had laughed, hadn’t they? At the jokes I mean. Mine, not his. And clapped. And asked questions. Well, Lord bless ‘em all for that. And blimey: I’ve got to do it all over again in Ely tomorrow. I hope they’re nice. The blackbird sang on: shouldn’t I be doing more for science? Counting the melodic bits and comparing them with the more challenging passages?

This was clearly an urgent matter, but it had been a tough day. I surrendered myself to the hammock’s secondary use and after that I heard the blackbird no longer.

https://www.toppingbooks.co.uk/events/ely/simonbarnes2/

https://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Fly-Taking-Insects-Humans/dp/1526687542