Stringers are globally threatened!

From the time of skins, flint & fire tales of self-indulgence, chronicled from generation to generation & unfettered by cultural nuance, feature prominently in the recorded evolution of Homo sapiens (spp.). Homo sapiens avialaedii [ie: birders](the nominate race btw.), extant in South Africa & in other interesting locales around this fine nut, advance the collective good with unsurpassed verve & imagination. It is precisely this craving for perfection; a veritable clawing from within the chasm of excellence, that gives rise to a recorded narrative some of which falls the tiniest twitch short of an ass's tail.

Susceptible as I am to tales, as any other self-respecting H.s.avialaedii must surely be, particularly when birds or birding feature prominently, I confess a naivety unbecoming of the hitherto cynically suspicious. One such story was narrated to me on a cold, miserable, wind-blown night, somewhere between the biscuits & cheese & a stout glass of chamomile for the sandman's ticket. Here it is; I swear it's true..

On a midsummer's day, many summer-seasons past & on an island renowned for its frenetic pace & time-honed honesty, claims of a Siberian Thrush (btw. - a tart's tick it is not) clanged around the grapevine like a well-timed kick to the knicks; a knack the claimant had become notorious for. Notoriety, in the UK twitching-genre, is reputation's straight-jacket & the claimant felt the jacket a tad unfair for truth. 

Notices of intent were posted from pillar to post. Photographic evidence proved the tick extant; a redemption if ever there was. Enlivened by this irrefutable evidence the relenting naysayers mobilised for a lightening raid on the targeted thrush. A spirit of comradery infused the claimant's claim & the prodigal welcomed back into the community bosom. Shockingly the thrush did a duck & flew the coup for none to see..

Closer scrutiny of the claimant's photographic evidence revealed a committee-like anomaly of angle; a trickery of shade & light. The photo was indeed the thrush but a thrush never in life or warmth of heart & feather but of cold clay & of modelled, bad intent. Expertly-tried & subsequently banished to a purgatory of excommunication the claimant wonders still the stringer's fields alone; a trumpet-free legacy of shame.  

It's a sad tale & uniquely incongruous with the founding epithet of I.NUT* for there are no stringers here! A royal tale has terned the page but stringers are indeed the figments of a chronicled past. Not so?



*The International Union of National Twitchers