See chapter one here: http://www.fionamordaunt.com/weavers-and-otters/
The otters at London’s Wetlands had ignited such hope and wonderment in me, that I started googling pictures to accompany my first post and realised…it was the WW ‘T‘ rehabilitating habitat in that part of London, and the WW ‘F’ that I had been donating to for how long?
4 years. Thank you Facebook, freakishly big brother.
(shakes fist angrily at the sky.)
Pesky acronyms, there are so many of them. WWF, WWT and WI, to name but a few.
(Is that one for real???)
There are some that I am brilliantly familiar with such as DOB, ASAP and UFO (I’m always seeing those) but others, well, I have now found an on-line acronym identifier, for which I am grateful.
I’ve came up with my own acronym, by the way
Stands for F**k It Gang.
I’m not sure about wearing a…leaf of some sort but…You get the idea.
Who’s with me?
No – okay, we’ll leave that one for the moment.
What touched and humbled me so much about the otters was that people had managed, against the odds, to create a tangible example of what London could look like. AKA not that dissimilar to the Oka Vango, ‘revered as a place of beauty.’
Someone had my back, in a collective sense, until I got old enough to have my own back and…quite possibly, one day, I might be in the position to have the back of someone else ie: a child. Other people. An otter.
I went through it carefully – I was well into my fourties = I really couldn’t deny that I was officially an adult.
Was I a Parent? Yes. Yes I was – AM.
Sorted enough with material possessions and cash flow, love life, other stuff (hair) to have a bit of headspace for something altruistic?
Errrrrr, I have to say yes, I guess so. Yes. Tick. (Getting slightly uneasy now.)
So this future me I was thinking about, this responsible person, the kind who might be interested in gardening or joining the WI was…ME??????????
HOLY FRIKKING MACKERAL (H F M)
But I drive a car, I have been known to use cling-film, I get on planes fairly regularly. I am indirectly responsible for the death of an innocent guinea pig.
I don’t like lecturing people. Pot. Kettle. Black. That kind of thing. How might I fit in with ‘conservation’– it’s a word that I associate with people who know what they are doing?
It was time for a little self-reflection, literally.
Why was it that I didn’t like photos of myself anymore?
Double chin. YUK! But I look fat – NO, DON’T POST IT! Apply makeup, tiny tweak in photoshop…BETTER.
I assumed it was because I was getting older, but I like getting older. The last time I remembered truly enjoying my reflection was when I was pregnant with Ella.
I didn’t enjoy my current reflection because I was blocking out my conscience; reasoning that in a world of seven and a half billion people, there were many better qualified to know how we should change than I was.
But change eventually occurs whether we like it or not, even if nobody does anything. A watched pot does eventually boil (with or without a frog in it) and as my new friend Neli De Jesus said today, when someone says to her ‘you only live once’ she says ‘you mean you only DIE once! You live every day.’
Well, I started donating to WWT, for a start – put that right. And I kept donating to WWF…for the moment.
And all the while my conscience kept yapping at my heels like an annoying little $h~*.