I was in the basement of Waterstone’s at the west end of Princes Street. Three young members of staff, one female and two male, were talking loudly. The males were teasing the woman in a deliberately petty, repetitive fashion. I was quite distracted by this incessant stupid chatter, and although I was in a public place and we can’t expect the silence of a library in a high street shop, I was irritated. I think I was justified:

1. Different standards and conventions – loose codes of conduct – apply on different floors of a bookshop. We do expect a quieter, more peaceful atmosphere on floors other than the ground floor.

2. There are chairs on these floors so that you can sit and read. In general, the shop itself creates the peaceful ambience or the expectation of it.

3. I’ve been in this particular Waterstone’s many times and the basement is normally very quiet and peaceful. This is probably one reason for my frequent visits.

4. On this occasion, there was no other sound in the room, so their loudness was unnecessary, uncivil and discourteous.

5. This loudness was just one aspect of their swaggering manner, in which they showed a disregard for the customers, acting as if we were not there and as if the whole room belonged to them. This was manifest in their movements and bearing, the way they would talk across the full width of the room even if there were people in between, and so on.

In any case, I was irritated. I was trying to choose between two books based on what I could gather from their prefaces about the standard of knowledge required to read them. The unpredictable monkey-like noises of the staff – interspersed with their occasional macaw-like screeches – made it difficult to concentrate.

Transformation

But then something unexpected happened. There was suddenly a new noise: whispering, between two customers, a middle-aged man and woman, who must have just come down the stairs. That someone should think it suitable to whisper was absurd enough, given that the staff continued to dribble out their inanities for everyone to hear; but, worse than that, the whispering was loud, considerably louder than most normal speech. I don’t have proof of it, but I’d guess that if they had talked at a normal, quiet volume, I would hardly have noticed them.

If you’ve never heard loud whispering, let me tell you: it’s bloody irritating. I think this is partly because it’s so stupid, more than because of the intrinsic qualities of the sound.

Anyway, there I was, trying to read a preface to a book on mathematics, my ears buffeted by irregular waves of jungle-like cacophony coming from the staff and scoured by the rasping voiceless speech of the whisperers; and I wasn’t irritated any more. I just smiled at the wonderful absurdity of my situation.

Image created by Photoshop genius - Las Tonterias -

A couple of years ago I saw Bill Oddie on his TV show “How to Watch Wildlife,” explaining how to attract squirrels. I was inspired by Bill’s amazingly successful technique: he just noisily rustled a paper bag full of nuts, and squirrels came to him from all around – came right up to him – and ate the nuts right out of his hand.

At the time it was important to me to make the most of my weekends, working as I was in a very stressful IT manager role, and I thought that squirrel-feeding/watching/stroking would be a perfect leisure activity. So one lovely summer day I went down to Edinburgh Royal Botanic Gardens, which I knew from previous sightings to be home to hundreds of the delightful bushy-tailed rodents.

I purchased a paper bag full of squirrel food, conveniently available at the Botanic Gardens shop, and then followed the procedure just as Bill had demonstrated. I found a suitable bench to sit on, underneath the great boughs of a venerable oak tree and in close proximity to several beech trees, pines, cedars, and one medium-sized bush. Perfect!

I quietly approached, sat down, and began to rustle. I didn’t want to make it too obvious, so I kept the bag in my pocket while I rustled it, and nonchalantly scanned my surroundings for signs of my quarry. I looked all around me, up in the branches of the trees, and in the nearby bush, but I couldn’t see even a hint of that unmistakable silhouette, nor could I hear any signs of mammalian life. A few pigeons nodded over in my direction but I wasn’t interested in them. I wasn’t there for the pigeons, was I?

After about five unproductive minutes I reckoned it was time to bring out the bag. After all, I reasoned, perhaps these squirrels hadn’t been conditioned, like those in Bill’s neighbourhood, to respond to just the sound of a paper bag. Perhaps they had to see it too. So I brought out the bag and held it aloft, so that there was no way any watching squirrels could miss it.

After another five squirrelless minutes I resorted to throwing the nuts on the ground. I’d been reluctant to take this last step, as it just seemed too easy. In any case, Bill hadn’t needed to do that.

Already I felt something of a failure.

Surrounded by nuts and pigeons I sat expectantly. Then hopefully. Then in bafflement. What was going on here? This place was squirrel-central and had been for as long as I’d been going there. All I wanted to do was feed them, some of the tamest squirrels in the land – squirrels that wouldn’t normally have any fear of humans. Why would they reject my advances like this? Was it something about me that was repulsing them?

I couldn’t understand it, and I don’t mind saying that I grew quite embarrassed, and then downright angry. Here I was, taking time out of my precious weekend to offer food to these creatures – and asking for nothing in return! Well I wasn’t going to be made a fool of any longer, so I stashed the bag of nuts back in my pocket, stood up and stormed off in the direction of the exit.

But then, as the path approached a large collection of rhododendrons, I saw a lone squirrel hopping about on the ground, apparently in search of food. The enthusiasm that I’d so recently lost suddenly returned to me, and I quietly crept towards it, taking the bag of nuts out of my pocket and rustling it in an enticing fashion. This was the moment I’d been waiting for, and it would be more special, more dramatic, because of what I’d gone through. I envisioned those blissful future moments, just me and my squirrel friend sharing nuts on the lush grass in the summer sunshine.

Then it noticed me, and looked me up and down for a few seconds. I upped my game, throwing a few nuts from the bag and speaking softly in encouraging tones, all the while growing nearer and nearer – to the squirrel, and to that fateful moment.

But, suddenly, it just turned and hopped away into the rhododendrons, without any panic or fear whatsoever. I chased after it, hoping against hope that it might eventually come round. I dived after it into the tangle of branches and struggled to follow, but it just scampered off into the darkness of the undergrowth, never to be seen again.

The anger welled up in me again, this time tinged with intense humiliation. I felt defeated – an utter failure. I tried to walk proudly away without a care, but I couldn’t do it: I just skulked, went home and crawled into bed, where I replayed the day’s events a thousand times.

Needless to say, ever since then I have hated squirrels.

Note: this story originally appeared in a Flickr group, Photographic Editing Offences.