Lepidopteracide
A Six-Spot Burnet Moth (Zygaena filipendulae), seen on what must have been the middle finger of my left hand, Wednesday 10th July 1974. Ilford HP4. Mmmmm ....graaainn ...gloggalloghgh...
It pains me to record that my blundering, ill-bred intrusion into its little moth life had fatal consequences for the moth. I was on the embankment above Narroways Junction, Bristol, hoping that a "Western" or two might pass. Seconds after taking the photo I heard the unmistakeable twang of a Western's twin-tone horn. Pirouetting around, I saw the locomotive approaching fast, "light engine", from Stapleton Road. Arrgh! There was an extension tube between the camera and the lens. I tried to get the moth off my finger without harming it, but it clung. When I'd managed to detatch it I feverishly unscrewed the extension tube from the camera, the lens from the extension tube, and re-screwed the lens back onto the camera. I'd also brought my little Hitachi cassette recorder, loaded with an "own brand" C60 tape from F W Allen in The Arcade. I'd procured a plug-in microphone for the recorder, to eliminate the motor whirr which was audible if you used the built-in mike. The recorder could be activated from this microphone's on/off switch. I leapt across the sward and switched on the recorder, which I'd left on the ground. Adjusting shutter speeds and apertures I scrambled into position as the locomotive approached. When it was nicely in the viewfinder I depressed the shutter-release button. Nothing happened. In my confusion I'd neglected to wind on after taking the moth photo. I advanced the film and managed an inadequate shot as the locomotive passed beneath me ...by now partly obscured by a southbound freight.
Sheesh kebab, what a cock-up. I turned. And discovered with remorse that, in my disarray, I'd stepped on the moth. I am sorry to mention this rather revolting detail, but its eggs had been forced out of its rear end. The mother moth was still living; squeamishly I administered euthanasia. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. I felt such a brute. I write as one who can't even swat a fly, and traps spiders in a tumbler, often walking down the street in darkness to deposit them in a neighbour's garden.
When I played back the tape, I found that the recorder had been accidentally activated from the microphone's on/off switch during the journey up to Sussex Place on the no. 11, which I'd boarded at Straits Parade. It had recorded my conversation with its conductress before "running out". I knew the conductress, a dyed blonde, heavily made-up middle-aged woman whose name I've forgotten. Long dead now, I suppose. Her thick east Bristol tones were immediately apparent on the tape. I rather regret having recorded over it.
Lepidopteracide
A Six-Spot Burnet Moth (Zygaena filipendulae), seen on what must have been the middle finger of my left hand, Wednesday 10th July 1974. Ilford HP4. Mmmmm ....graaainn ...gloggalloghgh...
It pains me to record that my blundering, ill-bred intrusion into its little moth life had fatal consequences for the moth. I was on the embankment above Narroways Junction, Bristol, hoping that a "Western" or two might pass. Seconds after taking the photo I heard the unmistakeable twang of a Western's twin-tone horn. Pirouetting around, I saw the locomotive approaching fast, "light engine", from Stapleton Road. Arrgh! There was an extension tube between the camera and the lens. I tried to get the moth off my finger without harming it, but it clung. When I'd managed to detatch it I feverishly unscrewed the extension tube from the camera, the lens from the extension tube, and re-screwed the lens back onto the camera. I'd also brought my little Hitachi cassette recorder, loaded with an "own brand" C60 tape from F W Allen in The Arcade. I'd procured a plug-in microphone for the recorder, to eliminate the motor whirr which was audible if you used the built-in mike. The recorder could be activated from this microphone's on/off switch. I leapt across the sward and switched on the recorder, which I'd left on the ground. Adjusting shutter speeds and apertures I scrambled into position as the locomotive approached. When it was nicely in the viewfinder I depressed the shutter-release button. Nothing happened. In my confusion I'd neglected to wind on after taking the moth photo. I advanced the film and managed an inadequate shot as the locomotive passed beneath me ...by now partly obscured by a southbound freight.
Sheesh kebab, what a cock-up. I turned. And discovered with remorse that, in my disarray, I'd stepped on the moth. I am sorry to mention this rather revolting detail, but its eggs had been forced out of its rear end. The mother moth was still living; squeamishly I administered euthanasia. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. I felt such a brute. I write as one who can't even swat a fly, and traps spiders in a tumbler, often walking down the street in darkness to deposit them in a neighbour's garden.
When I played back the tape, I found that the recorder had been accidentally activated from the microphone's on/off switch during the journey up to Sussex Place on the no. 11, which I'd boarded at Straits Parade. It had recorded my conversation with its conductress before "running out". I knew the conductress, a dyed blonde, heavily made-up middle-aged woman whose name I've forgotten. Long dead now, I suppose. Her thick east Bristol tones were immediately apparent on the tape. I rather regret having recorded over it.