TIGER DAY!!

Wellies, cameras and chicken drumsticks at the ready, Andy and I set off for our visit to the Wildlife Heritage Foundation in the back of beyond of the Kent countryside. We rendez-vous with our guide, Leigh, who hurtles like a mad thing down country lanes,through puddles the size of lakes thanks to the 24 hour we've had recently on top of melting snow and, as we pull into a yard, I squeal 'Oooh look! Lions!!' 'Where?' says Andy, completely not seeing the three humungous and well-fed male lions standing in their enclosure less than fifty feet away. It was one of those occasions when you don't see something because you don't expect it to be THAT big and THAT close. Heaven help us if we ever got chased by velociraptors...

Inside a large cabin I am given a welcome pack and asked to sign a safety policy document which basically says 'Do as you're told and you won't be eaten by a tiger.' This I do. Our huge offering of chicken drumsticks is decanted into a plastic bucket, we are fortified 'gainst the bitter wind with a cup of hot chocolate and away we go.

Leigh clearly knows and loves the big cats at the Foundation. She calls them from their enclosures and out they trot, snuffing and huffing and being big and magnificent. Leigh tells us about each animal - their name and character, their breed, who they get on with, what they've been up to recently, in fact everything and more you'd want to know about them including their shoe size and where they like to go on holiday. To be able to feel a tiger's tongue lick your hand as you feed it a drumstick is quite incredible and one huge chap by the name of Tamair was quite happy to lie against the cage and have his back rubbed, before sucking up his drumstick like it was a string of spaghetti. My favourite was Makari - I suppose you could call him the Sylvester Stallone of the tiger world - tall and magnificent but not too many brain cells to knock together. He also had a sight problem which meant you had to waft your chicken around close to his face so he could see it. And then you couldn't be sure he'd know what to do with it. But he was lovely. I am very tempted to make him my adopted tiger. (£50 - a bargain!)

I was also very taken by the snow leopards, Ranschan and Mizi. Mizi might be expecting snow babies but apparently it's difficult to tell until one day a keeper goes into the enclosure and 'ta dah!!' There they are! All that can be said for the moment is that she is acting very 'schmoozy.' (A technical big cat term.)

Here are some interesting things I learnt today. 1) The first litter of a snow leopard consists of male cubs only 2) a cheetah is the only big cat whose claws are non-retractable 3) a cheetah is the only big cat that purrs 4)the Amur leopard is very beautiful but very endangered (less than 40 left in the wild, in the whole of the Earth) and therefore needs saving and 5) Andy was surprisingly nervous about feeding the tigers even though he gets bitten at work on a regular basis by hamsters and such like.

I urge people to go on the Wildlife Heritage Foundation website at www.whf.org.uk and see what goes on. And then get out your wellies and wallets and go for a visit to get up close and personal with these charismatic big cats. It is very well worth it. A great experience.

And now I'm going to try and do my bit to help fund raise. The Amur leopard does not deserve to die out (unlike things like the Labour Party and people who allow their toddler children to weave erratically across my path with dolly pushchairs when I'm shopping in town). I'm going to write a storybook for the Foundation to sell. If they want to. It might turn out to be a load of twaddle. I wouldn't want to damage their cause!! So as I sharpen my pencil and get my writing brain into 'Big Cat Story Book Mode' I'll leave you with a couple of very short films of Tiger Day!

A moral maze

Today, I faced two dilemmas. One involved taste and a coat and one involved morals and chicken drumsticks. Neither were related although I expect it won't be long before the Tate Modern exhibits a piece of art entitled 'My Coat of Many Drumsticks' consisting of a coat made of, well, chicken drumsticks. (My money's on Damien Hirst.)

First, the coat. It is Heather's 21st birthday next week. I've been asking her for the last 3 weeks what she would like for her birthday. I know that she would really like cold, hard cash, but she knows that I don't approve of this kind of gift for a birthday especially a 21st. She knows that I want to buy an actually pressie and do it up in nice paper with ribbons and stuff and watch her little face light up as she opens it.

So today I am in Bluewater. Andy and I have marched around the whole thing once and he has reassured me that as long as I keep going in a circle I shall ALWAYS end up back at M & S and WILL NOT get lost. Therefore, I feel safe for him to leave me as he goes in search of a Valentine's present (and when I find out for whom I shall punch her lights out.) We arrange to meet in just over an hour for some lunch. I go in search of Heather's birthday present. Then I realise I don't know what I'm looking for so I call her.

'I'm in Bluewater,' I say. 'What would you like for your birthday?' She umms and ahhs a bit and is no help whatsoever. 'Tell you what,' I say, 'have a think and text me.' She agrees this is a plan. Off I go again. Twenty minutes later she sends a text saying 'I don't know. Go with your instincts.'
That was helpful, I think. I text her back saying I'm erring towards jewellery (only because I'm standing outside a jeweller's). She replies that jewellery sounds good. Or maybe a nice handbag or a coat. Go with your instinct, she says.

For heaven's sake, Heather, what kind of suggestion is that??? A wild one, that's what! Do you realise how horribly wrong it could have gone????

I can deal with bags. In the past, if I've bought Heather a bag present, I've gone into Accessorize and chosen one that I wouldn't be seen dead with, safe in the knowledge that she'll love it. But coats? Different kettle of fish altogether.

'Throw me a line,' I text back, in keeping with the fish theme. 'Colour? Size? Length? Fuzzy? Smooth? Hood? Pockets?'

Now because I am her mum and I am alarmed to learn that she 'doesn't have a coat', especially in this weather, my instinct is saying 'Bright orange duffel coat. With hood. Warm and highly visible to protect her from the Norwich traffic and the wind blowing across the cabbage fields.' Ah yes, that's the ticket. A nice snuggly duffel coat, just like Paddington Bear, for my little girl. The text comes back 'Something black/grey NOT bright. Long enough to cover my bum. Rain mac, poss?'

Instinct shminstinct! We travel home coatless but I did manage to purchase half a present. I shan't say what it is because Heather reads this blog (have you played the chicken game yet? My highest score so far is 458!) and I don't want to spoil the surprise. But I think, young lady, you should know the trauma you caused me with your wild 'coat' suggestion.

On the way home we nipped into Sainsbugs to get chicken drumsticks because tomorrow it is TIGER DAY!!! Normally, I buy free-range chicken. I stare at the free-range drumsticks which come in packs with thighs. 'No thighs,' instructs Andy. 'I don't know why, but I've been told SPECIFICALLY NO THIGHS.' 'Probably because a drumstick has got a bit of a handle on it,' I suggest, sagely. 'Puts your fingers an extra 4 inches away from tiger teeth danger.'

So, do I pay a small fortune and buy 4 times as many packets of free-range drumsticks 'n' thighs(and remove the thighs. 'What have we got for dinner tonight, darling?' 'Chicken thighs, darling.' 'Not again, darling', followed by heavy sighs all round). Or do I buy the cheapy value brand, because it is highly unlikely after all, that a tiger is going to worry about the provenance of its raw meat. I look at the Freedom Food labelled stuff as a middle ground. After all, Hugh F-W says it's okay if you can't go all the hog with free-range. Hmmmmm....

Suffice it to say we leave Sainsbugs hanging our heads in shame but yeah, the tigers shall feast well tomorrow.

I go home to light a candle to the god of chickens to atone for my sins. And feed Slocombe, Poo, Miggins and Pumphrey some grapes and lettuce as penance.

Poo the Fearless

It's countdown to 'Tiger Day!' I am very excited! In fact, just thinking about it has caused me to choke on a piece of apple I'm eating in lieu of a big piece of cake because I am STILL trying to shift my post-Christmas bulge. It's okay, though. Mrs Miggins arrived and administered the Heimlich Manoeuvre.

'What you need,' she says as she picks me, choking and blue-lipped, from the kitchen floor, 'is a big piece of cake. The sponginess will mop up any stray bits of apple as it goes down.' She sounds so wise, so experienced about these things that I feel I should take her sage medical advice.
'So what's all the excitement then?' asks Miggins. She takes her hankie from her handbag and wipes a blob of chocolate butter icing from my face.
'Well,' I say, 'Andy is taking me to see some tigers. I'm going to write a story about them. I love tigers! Tigers are great! All that stripey fur and those fluffy ears...'
'Yes, yes,' says Miggins. 'I get the idea. You've been trained for this, I take it?'
I shake my head. Mrs Miggins tuts.
'You can't go visiting tigers without proper training,' she says. 'You need to speak to Mrs Poo. She'll get you fit and ready to visit a tiger or two.'
'Mrs Poo?' I ask.
'Oh yes,' says Miggins. 'She had to study a module in 'Mixing With Tooth and Claw Mammals' for her degree in stunt henship. I believe she got a distinction. I'll give her a shout.' And Miggins goes to the back door.
'POO!!' she shouts.
'I wish you wouldn't do that,' I say. Mrs Poo appears from behind the eglu. She is wearing a pair of science goggles and is holding a steaming test-tube with some tongs.
'WHAT?' she yells back. 'ONLY I'M AT A CRUCIAL POINT IN MY EXPERIMENT!'
'WHAT EXPERIMENT?' yells Mrs Miggins.
'THE ONE FOR CONVERTING CHICKEN DUNG INTO FUEL FOR THE INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINE FOR MY FORMULA ONE RACING CAR!' shouts Mrs Poo.
Mrs Miggins turns back to me and sighs. 'She thinks she's going to take up Formula One motor racing. She says that Massey Fergusson have approached her to drive for them.'
'Don't they make tractors?' I ask.
'Quite,' says Miggins.
Mrs Poo has appeared at the door. The steaming test-tube smells foul and I comment as such.
'That's because it's got chicken dung in it,' says Poo. 'Ahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!'
'Shush!' says Miggins, 'and tell us about how to deal with a tiger visit.'
Mrs Poo gives Tybalt the test-tube and a glare that says 'if you drop this, cat, I'll haunt you in your dreams.'
'Tiger visiting eh?' she says. 'What've you been told so far?'
'To wear wellies and take a camera and some chicken drumsticks,' I say.
Mrs Poo nods. 'Same old myths,' she says.
'What are chicken drumsticks?' says Miggins.
'Never mind,' I say.
'They're very ineffectual, chicken drumsticks,' says Poo. 'I mean, even if you stand on a chair so you can poke the tiger in the eye, a small stick isn't going to save you against all those teeth. And they're never the same for playing your drums with after, you know. I think it upsets their fine balance.'
'I have no intention of poking a tiger in the eye with a drumstick or any other sort of stick,' I say.
Mrs Poo shrugs. 'Your limbs, I suppose,' she says. 'Personally, I'd feed Mrs Slocombe to a tiger if it meant saving my own feathers.'
'That's not nice,' I say. There's still a bit of tension in the air between Mrs Slocombe and the other three girls due to the feather pecking incident. I'm encouraging Mrs Slocombe to study the Elizabethan period at the moment in the hope she'll get fixated with the fashions of the time and take to wearing a gi-normous ruff around her neck. (The theory being that she won't be able to get anywhere near the others to get at their feathers. It's a thought.)

'So how do you suggest I approach this tiger visit?' I ask. Mrs Poo sits at the table and scribbles a few things on a piece of paper.
'Do you mind?' I say. 'That's part of the script for my latest best-selling novel.'
'It won't do you much good when you haven't got any arms left, will it?' says Poo. 'Trust me, you'll need to follow these instructions very carefully if you are to come out of this experience in one piece.' And she takes a piece of sellotape and attaches the paper to my forehead.
'Thanks,' I say. Mrs Poo nods, takes the test-tube from Tybalt and trots back into the garden to continue her experiment.
'What does it say?' asks Mrs Miggins. 'I left my glasses on my bedside table.'
'It..ouch...says...eek,' I begin, peeling the paper from my forehead, 'DO NOT VISIT TIGERS. THEY ARE CATS. WHAT HAVE WE TOLD YOU ABOUT CATS. WILL YOU NEVER LEARN, YOU MORON???'
'That was helpful then,' says Miggins.
'Wasn't it just,' I say.