Robins' nest

Shirtsleeves weather on Saturday so I spent the day in the garden for a sustained attack on the weeds and lawn edges.

I called at the garden centre to replace the three delphiniums bought in the autumn that had failed to appear in the spring. "Do you replace plants?" I asked the man at the counter.

"Sorry sir, but we're not responsible for them after they leave the premises," He says. "I'd say that the slugs have got to them." He might be right. I noticed that there were still five no-showing delphiniums in their pots at the garden centre. Who's slugs were we talking about?

Back in the garden a robin appeared as I was digging over the compost. I watched where it was heading and saw it dodge in to a plant pot tipped on its side amid some thorny cotoneaster. Nesting on the ground seemed a bit risky.

Later I spotted two male robins hopping around the garden. A bit odd, that, I thought, since male robins are usually quite territorial. Then I noticed both males flying out of the plant pot. What was going on?

These two fully grown robins were nuzzling each other on a branch. Steady on boys. Gay robins? It happens among birds. Black swans are known for it. So are mallards, penguins and gulls. Or could they be part of a menage a trois, sharing a female who could be hidden away on a clutch of eggs.

I'm not sure what I think about robins mincing about my garden. I prefer to think of Cock Robin as a poem, not a question.

Perhaps this was a family thing. They might be brothers, or possibly this was a bit of manly father and son joshing. I have no idea.

NB. All now understood. It looks like the robins are sharing their garden with a tit. See comments for embarrassing explanation.

Christmas card anxiety

Angst over the Christmas cards. For years we've sent ones with Madonna and child motifs cherubs or trumpeting angels, a Murillo or a Raphael radiating with godly intent, peace and goodwill to all men (and women too for heaven's sake, no intent to be sexist here).

This year, just to be different, we chose cows wearing Santa hats, cuddly penguins and 1930s bathing bells throwing snowballs. Now I'm reading in my Saturday Telegraph, self-styled arbiter of middle class behaviour, that its columnist, Jeff Randall, has declared his intent to tear up any card he receives that does not mention the word "Christmas".

"Outrage against non-Christmas cards growing," says the Telegraph headline. I check out our cards. "Merry Christmas," say the penguins, "With best wishes for Christmas and the New Year," say the cows. "Season's Greetings," say the bathing belles. Season's Greetings? Is that the best they can muster? What are we to do? Half of our Christmas card output this year has failed the Randall test.

Ah well, it wouldn't be Christmas without anxiety over the cards. For as long as I can remember I have felt guilty over corporate Christmas cards. In the good old days when I first worked at the Financial Times, all the reporters received a fat allocation of tasteful cards with a pile of highly sought after FT desk diaries to dispense among favoured contacts.

People would sell their grandmothers for those diaries. But to give them out was to create a climate of expectation. Resentment over not receiving one after a run of diaries in past years was almost as great as the initial gratitude.

Then there was the Christmas card design. A lapse one year in to corporate tastelessness led to a sharp rebuke from David Lascelles, the then banking editor, who set himself up as the editorial Christmas card guru. Cost cutting did for the diaries in the same way that it did for the long lunches and, finally, the Christmas cards, although an amount is designated now to charity in their place.

But cards continue to arrive from contacts. I don't have a secretary with an easily accessible list of names and addresses so I expect I will settle for a message on my web site. I know there is as much thought there as there is in some of the cards. I had one from a car company executive who I could barely recall. For him, I'm sure, the contact was similarly vague, only he passed my calling card to his secretary who noted it on the list. Come Christmas, the list is converted to cards, the cards are in a pile awaiting a signature and the card is sent. It's a process. But it's not a thought process. So, if it's the thought that counts, this ritualistic exchange of cards doesn't amount to much.

That's why the personal message is so important, only this can really pile on the guilt when it has not been reciprocated. In the past few years I have joined the much criticised set who send "round robin" notes with their cards. I would have ended the practice but people tell me they like them. Sometimes people get a round robin note and a personal message. If that doesn't give them a little glow I don't know what can.

Bathing belles throwing snowballs? Thank God Jeff Randall isn't on my Christmas list. Imagine Jeff's card collection this year. It's going to be overflowing with godliness, plum duff, holly and fat-belted Father Christmases. On second thoughts I might just send him my bathing belles, complete with a corporate calling card with wishes for a prosperous New Year.