Not Fit For Work


I got my first ever sick note this week. Ok, Fit Note if you want the correct terminology but a Fit Note for unfitness never made sense to me.

It’s a novelty. I might copy it and frame it before I give it to the bosses at work on Monday.

Thing is, I usually work through feeling dodgy. Carrying on regardless has always worked before. When you’re self-employed you can’t afford to be ill anyway and since I’ve been an employee, I can isolate myself pretty well, slather my hands in antiseptic gel, take ibuprofen and swig fizzy 1000mgs Vitamin C to help things along a bit. Let’s not forget Dr Wang’s Amazing Pills from Hong Kong. Even if they don’t actually contain any active ingredients – and lacking Mandarin as a first language, I can’t tell – they act as very fine placebos.

This virus came at me straight out of left field and I tried to ignore it. I phoned my surgery, a doctor called me back and triaged me. He basically said “Yeah there’s nothing much we can do about that. If a rash comes out look it up on and if it looks like the rash, yeah, then that’s what it is.”

DermNet turns out to be very useful for making yourself feel nauseous looking at horrendous images of skin conditions from around the world. If I hadn’t been feeling ill already I definitely would have felt bilious (oh my god, doesn’t the word alone make you feel a bit icky?) after looking at that.

So I blundered on with Life. Nice sunny weather so walks (too hurty to run) and.. “….are you sure you’re feeling up to cycling?”

“OF COURSE. I AM ALWAYS UP FOR CYCLING!!!!” …so a lovely dappled bike ride along the Wye on Sunday. A bit tired afterwards but hey, sunshine and pedalling is *always* the best restorative for me.

Turns out it isn’t. After a night of pain – and I can now attest to the accuracy of the phrase ‘racked with pain’ – and only about 2 hours sleep, going to work on Monday was a bit of a struggle.

I looked fit to work. I was dressed correctly, make-up applied, good hair, great nails, my hands worked, it didn’t hurt to sit in a chair and type things looking at a computer screen but I was hurting. Hurting, burning, aching. All those things.

But worst of all was – and this is very unlike me – the fact that I’d ceased to care.

I’m normally a calm, opinionated, bit loud, decisive, friendly, good-humoured, sympathetic, organised, ready-to-change-the-world, seizing the carp (carpe diem) kind of person. I’m never ‘don’t care.’  I might bitch about stuff but that’s because I care!

I care about my job and the service we give to patients and I set an example, expecting – and actually finding – that everyone who works with me feels much the same about their jobs.

I’m only indifferent to you if I don’t know you and even then, I’d probably give you the parking receipt I’ve already paid for or help you out with some change.

There was work that *had* to be done, so I was going to do it. But it was a struggle. I had absolutely zero interest in everything anyone said to me. I had to pretend like crazy. When a doc asked me to fix something for her, I did it but thought “Why does she think this is even important?”

In short, I shouldn’t have been at work. So I went home after 3 hours and slept, and slept, and slept. I saw a doctor, took drugs, slept, slept, felt a bit better, slept, slept and slept some more.

That thing I say to people “Oh yeah I’m saving that to watch/read/listen to when I’m ill!” ( I refer here to major re-run treats like The Wire, Mary Poppins, Top Gun, Lord of the Rings, The Undercover Economist #don’task ) …. Well, it turns out that when you are a bit ill, you don’t do any of that stuff because concentrating on anything just sends you to sleep again.

I’ve tried getting on with writing but as the late, great Norah Ephron said… (she didn’t actually say ‘Don’t write anything which is a well-known phrase’ I think George Orwell said that. You’ve probably missed that tongue-in-cheek thing anyway by now) …as she said (drum-roll) … “The hardest thing about writing is writing.”

That last par went all Ronnie Corbett but I’m leaving it in. So, to sum up, I haven’t achieved much and the other disappointing thing is that my meds haven’t given me brilliantly creative hallucinations or ideas. I was thinking “Hey man… I’m gonna be stoned on the good stuff… writing like a dream… playing guitar like Paul Simon” but nada. I’m probably a 9 on the Woozle Score of Wooziness which only encourages a Corbett-like ability to beat about the bush or curl up on something yielding – the cats have been useful – for a snooze.

But I’m feeling loads better, so there will be more blogs. Working, writing, blogging, cycling, running – I need to get back into shape for all those things. Blimey, that sentence sounds tiring to read, let alone *do*..

But hey, count this as a ‘limbering up….’



*goes for a nap

Posted in Cats, Current Affairs, Cycling | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

Unexpected visitors

One of the things rats do is appear when you least expect them.

A prime example was the one in Wetherspoons pub in Trowbridge recently.

A bloke was out with his girl when he felt something bump into his leg and found that a “sewer-sized rat” was climbing up his trousers.

Worse was to come.  It seized a chip from his fingers and made off!  Dogs will always want to share chips but at least they have the good grace to sit and look waggy-tailed and appealing until you hand one over. Plus they don’t keep you awake by galloping about in the attic at night.

Rats, I suspect, are beginning to believe that they own the place.


a prettier-than-average rat

I was chatting to a fellow dog walker one summer day when, just across the road, a rat turned up at the bus stop.  He just sat in the sun on the warm concrete enjoying the summer day. Then another rat turned up and sniffed nonchanently around on the grass verge. Rats.. a bit like buses, really.

As the chap in Trowbridge found out though, it’s much more disturbing when they invade your personal space. One Sunday, my family were assembled around the dining table as I was just serving up Sunday dinner.

Mother-in-law was a guest. For some reason she glanced out of the patio doors and gave something a hard stare.

“Is that a rat eating an orange on your lawn?”

Cutlery poised as we were all about to make a start on the roast Welsh lamb, we turned to look at the garden and yes.. there was a large brown rat sitting up on his haunches holding and nibbling half an orange.

His manner was relaxed, as though he was a beloved pet having a little Sunday afternoon romp among the flowers and in no particular rush to return to his cage.

“Oh yes.  It does look like one,” I replied casually, as though we always have a rat-infested garden. I didn’t really enjoyed the lamb.

I spoke to a woman once who had complained to her holiday company about rats that appeared at night when she was leaving the restaurant on an island in the Maldives to walk back to her apartment.

They gave her the creeps, scurrying about in the dark.  They even ran around her feet as she queued for the buffet! The holiday company letter addressing her complaint was hilarious.

They explained that the creatures were not , in fact, rats but Maldavian Palm Hamsters.  She managed to take some snaps of the cute “hamsters” and they did look incredibly similar to rats..

Rats do have their fans, though.  A doctor colleague of mine loves her pet rats and says they are incredibly intelligent, friendly and good company.

Well they must be if they’d run up a man’s leg to get a chip. I dread to think what they might do to secure a cheesy chip.

But *nothing* – and I mean *nothing* –  is as bad as finding a cockroach in your knicker drawer.

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Super Sludge


Sludge must be one of the most mysterious things on earth.

That’s the whole thing about sludge, it can be made of anything at all and you haven’t the faintest clue.

Sludge is at the bottom of the pond… a silent slow conglomeration of dead stuff – animal and vegetable – fish and frog poo (I’ve never seen a frog poo but they must do it)* and general ooze. It stinks.

There’s sludge in the filter of my washing machine. It’s a horrible grey viscous goo which looks like something that could creep up the stairs, into my bedroom and suffocate me in the night.  No idea what it’s made of but it smells a bit.

And now, there’s the sludge I drink every morning. It doesn’t smell too bad but it looks very very sludgy indeed. It’s a kind of super-sludge.

I never meant to drink sludge. That wasn’t in my life plan at all until I bought a Nutribullet machine at Christmas.

I thought the Nutribullet would pep up Capt Sensible’s plain ol’ freshly squeezed orange juice.  It would add fibre and pith (or am I just taking it?). I imagined it would pep up his early morning drinks rather like the arrival of the Xbox transformed our gaming from potting cute ducks on the Wii shooting range to driving extremely fast racing cars around amazingly accurate representations of world-famous racing circuits.

I was wrong. Turns out he doesn’t like smoothie-type things but is now fixated on doing sludge-based experiments on me.

The first one didn’t look exactly appetising – a glass of bile-green liquid with a consistency only slightly runnier than Polyfilla. It had black bits through it and the swirl on the top was so dense that it was raised and three-dimensional.

I tasted it with caution.

“Can guess what it is yet?” he said in a creepy Rolf Harris-kind-of-way.

Hmm. I tasted banana… plus something a bit acidic.. then more banana.

Turned out to be banana, blueberries, grapes and spinach. Yes. I had drunk a green vegetable.

The Nutribullet book is full of sludge recipes including exotically-alien ingredients like kozo and goo-goo berries, Norwegian kumquats and Indonesian star-fruit, which I’ve never heard of **but what’s more never want to buy.

So the experiments continue. Peach, banana, melon and spinach is the best yet.

I’ve been drinking mystery sludges for a month now. I don’t feel any better or different but on the plus side, at least I haven’t turned green.

It hasn’t been a miraculous protection against infection; I caught a streaming cold which annoyingly, I had over a weekend. I can’t even claim my daily sludge shortened its duration as I hit it hard with Lemsip Max.

Some sludges have turned out to taste even more disgusting than they look – which is going some. Avocado, banana and spinach was especially slimy, thick and brown and to be avoided like the plague because was much worse than the plague.

Then there was the glass of blueberry, banana and grape sludge which just tasted of mould. I fertilized the viburnum with it.

A pal at work whose husband is fantatical about avoiding wasted food said “You sure he’s not just using the old stuff at the bottom of the fridge salad drawer?”

I laughed.

He can’t be.  I’d definitely detect Ye Olde Spring Onione and Wrinkly Ginger in my sludge.. er……..       wouldn’t I?


* I looked up frog poo. It’s a big thing. There are disgusting You Tube videos.

** Don’t go looking for them. I made them up.

Posted in Current Affairs, Food, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 9 Comments

Happy New Year – belated.


Happy New Year to anyone who happens to read this.

I’ve been flatlining on readers by the looks of things, probably because my last blog was in October and even the most persistent of readers will probably not keep popping in to a moribund blog, although, I should mention that anyone’s welcome to plunder the archives mercilessly.

2016 is going to be the Year of Writing.

New Year’s Eve was all fine champagne and fireworks and I started 2016 as I love to do, by togging up and walking on a Welsh beach in the kind of weather that only the stupid endure.

There were high winds gusting to 35mph and rain and about 25 people on the beach at Rhossili.

As we went down the steps to the beach, a couple of wet-suited surfers were ascending with surfboards, their oval faces in the neoprene helmets cheerless and blue with cold. It must be a rite that they perform, not for fun but out of a duty, this meeting the sea head-on again to welcome another year.

The sea was magnificently turbulent, with waves smashing against rock at the head of the Worm and white surf exploding upwards 40 or 50 feet. As the surf of the rollers broke, the offshore wind caught the tops and blew fine quiffs of brine back towards the horizon. Optimistic surfers bobbed black in the water beyond the waves waiting for the good one.

Walking towards Llangennith was one thing but turning and walking back towards Rhossili was a battle against a sandstorm. I could understand why the guy ahead of us in the blue anorak was walking backwards.

I pulled my furry hat down as low as I could. Forget the view. The weather had come in and there wasn’t one. Worm’s Head had disappeared and my face was being sandblasted constantly. We trudged on until we reached the lee of the headland where there was some shelter. You could see the gusts of wind approaching by the way they racing down the beach ruffling the the pools of wet sand.

I remembered the New Year’s Day 8 years ago when my dog Roly had just died, the day before and we were dogless on the beach for the first time. Tears caught by the wind. Doglessness still has a terrible poignancy for me on that beach but I live in hope that one day, I won’t work full time and one New Year, I’ll be there with a dog tearing around joyfully, snatching bits of seaweed and shaking them, rushing at seagulls and chasing bits of flotsam thrown for him.

Other people’s dogs are always fun to watch and the beach is so big that some dogs get completely over-excited, run half a mile away from their owners and then rush around, wild-eyed and worried, looking for them.

Other dogs, failing to find their owners, who are four black blobs a mile away on the flat, sand-blown expanse of grey, yelling noiselessly into the wind, attach to whoever is convenient and trot along companiably with perfect strangers.

My second springer spaniel Gemma got deaf in her older age – I blame my whistling kettle – and obeyed hand signals if you were lucky enough to be in sight.

One time at Rhossili, she attached herself to a group of about eight adults and children at least half a mile away from us. We could see her and we could see them stopping and looking back, catching sight of me breaking into a trot to go and get her.

They encouraged her, probably saying things like “Look. You know her. She’s calling you.”

She looked in my direction, ran about thirty yards towards me, stopped and had a really good look.

“Gemma! Come here! It’s me.” I said, waggling the lead

She had another look, decided I was plainly a total stranger, and rejoined her happy little group.

Deaf *and* poor eyesight? A difficult combination. How we laughed as i got her on the lead and walked half a mile back.





and then it cleared a bit….





Posted in Birds, Coast, Countryside, Dogs, Seaside, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

Waving not drowning

The usual thing, when visiting a friend, is to settle down with a chat and a cup or something or even better, a glass of something.

Visiting my pal Sabina in tropical Zummerzet those things are secondary to going down the back garden.

While her garden is large, well-kept and full of colour and beauty, for me it’s the pond at the end that holds enduring fascination.

For Sabina has established a reputation as a very gifted newt-charmer.

First time I ever visited, when she told me she had loads of newts. I stared down at the pond, which showed no visible signs of life apart from duckweed. Naturally, I challenged her to prove it.

“You don’t really want to see the newts do you?”

She was obviously not used to displaying her amphibia.

“Of course!”

She seized a handily-placed net and with the first dip of a net – bear in mind this is a pond which must be 12′ long – she brought up a fist-sized glob of mud and fallen leaves which began moving to reveal three glistening, gently-wriggling newts!

This newt-charming has happened on every occasion I’ve visited, so recently, on one sunny August day when we met to celebrate our birthdays, I inspected the duckweed-covered pond as usual then said “Actually…I won’t ask you to disturb the newts this time.”

I’d seen them and Sabina had nothing more to prove from the newt-charming point of view.

As we stood chatting – Sabina with her back to the pond – I was distracted by a mysterious twitching in the duckweed. As I watched, there seemed to be some sort of struggle as the duckweed bulged and twitched – then a little newt hand emerged, fingers stretched out in greeting!

It was unbelievable.

I just burst out laughing.

“Look behind you! One of your newts is saying ‘hello’!”

She turned to see the small wet newt hand waving. I think an ungainly newty back leg emerged soon afterwards.

“Do you think they are feeling left out?” she laughed.

She fetched the net and with one fell swoop, brought out a bundle of muddy, waving newts – some palmate newts and a Great Crested with a lovely spotted orange underbelly – for me to inspect at close quarters.


It was a brilliantly quirky start to a memorable day. Although Sabina and I we weren’t born in the same year, we share the same birthday so we both thought we should celebrate with a day out – a bit of a jaunt… probably the seaside.

Sure, there was Minehead not far away but a bit closer was a special place I’d always meant to revisit. I was taking a bit of a chance, relying on memory to celebrate our birthdays at a place which seemed rather heavenly on a sunny day with the kids 20 years ago.

East Quantoxhead isn’t on any tourist trails as far as I know. Certainly no-one would bother taking the narrow lane down the side of the pub in the village unless they knew that the sea and geologically-notable beach at Kilve lay at the other end of it.

The lane was narrower than I remembered and the tea garden was still there – dog friendly, which mattered in those days.

There were little groups of people about enjoying the sunny weekend. Most seemed to enjoy the ease of strolling about on the low grassy headland. Not us. We were heading for the rocks and specifically the smooth flat limestone platforms of my memory.

“Oh it’ll be really good,” I’d wittered on… “we might see fossils and the rocks are quite flat so ideal for a picnic and glasses of fizz.”

The reality was somewhat different. The layers of rock were flat but tilted at angles – although we did find a couple of comfortable ‘seats’ and laid out the picnic between us.

We toasted our birthdays, drank prosecco, ate birthday cake and chatted, sitting there on the foreshore on a blue and breezy day.

Beneath us and behind us was a breathtaking display of 200 million year old blue lias Jurassic limestone and shale.

In front of us the Bristol Channel was doing its best impression of melted milk chocolate in the brilliant sunshine.

Nothing was exactly as I remembered, but plenty good enough.





Kilve + the Bristol Channel

Kilve + the Bristol Channel

Technical details:

The cliffs and foreshore give good exposures of Lower Jurassic Blue Lias. There are rhythmic sequences of black shales, marls and limestones. Joint patterns and faults point to both normal extensional, and reverse compressional faulting. Ammonites and trace fossils can be seen.

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When a policeman on duty yells at you like a sergeant-major on a parade ground:

“OI!   YOU!!   OFF  THE  ROAD!!”

………….you actually get off the road a bit sharpish, even if you’re riding a Boris bike and have been mistakenly got involved in some sort of military parade through London.

We didn’t mean to go showboating on closed roads in front of tourists packed ten deep on the pavements of the Mall, honest guv.

It was supposed to be a pleasant, if somewhat random,  Saturday morning Boris bike tootle to Hyde Park from Covent Garden. Picked up some bikes near the back of Covent Garden, down to the Strand and round abouts, then a swap at Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall (I think) and then stopped to hear a super regimental band playing in a yard at St James’s Palace.

Traffic had been halted and there were people standing listening to the band play The World In Union, which was very apt as we had tickets to the big England v Wales Rugby World Cup match at Twickenham that evening.

Unexpectedly, the band marched out of the yard and along the road, so we hopped back on the bikes – honestly, the saddles of Boris bikes are like luxuriously upholstered like *sofas* – and followed on behind two police horses.

I wasn’t expecting to turn right on to the Mall. Or for it to be closed off to everything but the procession, the police horses and.. er… us.

It was a rather self-conscious slow pedal, suppressing giggles and probably blushing a bit, studiously avoiding riding too close to the horse in front or through fresh horse muck.

I wasn’t sure why everyone had turned out or why we were following the band or where we were going but with police controlling the crowds on the pavement, we didn’t have much option but to keep going, smirking and feeling a bit surreal.

If there was an occasion which demanded an ostentatious Peter Sagan wheelie, this was it. If I could’ve, I would’ve but in the real world I was riding a two-tonne (hyperbole alert) Boris bike with my handbag in the basket on the front and anyway, who am I kidding? The only wheelie I’ve ever pulled was a three-incher.

The only other time I’ve cycled in front of an audience was at a stage of the Tour de France in Brittany, where early in the day, we’d found a deserted spot on a hillside to pull the car over in readiness for the race coming through later. We got the bikes out and cycled into the nearest village to get some breakfast and buy stuff for a picnic lunch.

French villages are never less than appealing, so it was nearly two hours later that we set off again for the car along a road which was busy with people walking to see the race. When we turned on to the bottom of the hill, it was now closed to traffic and busy with Tour supporters and officials.

We had to cycle up the hill laden with carrier bags clanking with wine and baguettes, saucisson and fromage to cheers from a loud and friendly crowd which was clearly cycling-starved. “Allez Les Anglaises!! ” will live with me for a long time.

Anyway, as I said when a policeman yells for you to get off the road, you kind of do, without hesitation, deviation or repetition and in much less than just a minute.

But as I got off and pulled my bike in tight to the kerb, and Captain Sensible followed suit, the policeman shouted again.


By now, there was traffic behind us so we were heading it all up at the lights before we resisted the temptation to follow the band into the front yard of Buckingham Palace and instead nipped off down Buckingham Palace road.

Don’t ask where we rode after that but somehow we docked the bikes at Hyde Park within 30 minutes and took out another couple to have a ride around the park, including a refreshment stop at the cafe on the Serpentine where the herons are as tame as the ducks and the geese.

I don’t care what people say about London but it still has enormous charm for me when I’m on a bike or on foot. Being in a car is a nightmare but the slower forms of transport are ideal on summy warm autumn days.

The Santander Cycles app for mobiles was very good. You can plan a journey and it gives you easy, moderate or fast routes and tells in real time how many bikes are available at each docking station.  It cost me £2 to register for the day and that was it!  Because we docked the bikes within 30 minutes each time there was no further charge.

One downside was the ten minute wait before you could get the next bike out.  The other downside was that it was impossible to follow the route on the map when cycling but I read that someone has invented a useful little widget for the handlebars which would give you simple ‘sat nav’ style directions for turnings Blu-toothed to the app on the phone in your pocket.   It’s being crowd-funded at the moment so there’s hope that it will be in production next year.

The Santander Cycle scheme goes out as far as Hammersmith now, which is great and takes in Putney but I think there’s scope to extend it even further. It would be fab to ride out to Kew Gardens and Syon House. Maybe one day.





Posted in Cycling | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

‘Ere be cuttlefish.. or maybe not

Cuttlefish are incredible. I know that’s a sweeping, meaningless statement but when you’ve met a cuttlefish or two, you do appreciate them.

Without being overly anthropomorphic, you can commune with a cuttlefish. This film tells you a LOT about them.

Snorkelling in the Caribbean at St Lucia four years ago, I was watching fish when a flotilla of cuttlefish hove into view.   They were lined up in front of me, five of them, in formation, holding their positions at eye level with me.

It was a surprise, to say the least these creatures appearing out of the blue to observe me. I was meant to be the observer surely?

I’d just spent a wondrous ten minutes or so watching fish having fun – swimming into a shallow pool at the edge of the rocks and being washed out by the waves – only to swim round to experience the whole thing again…and again… and again…

So it was a very new experience having creatures observe me as I lay still in the water, camera in hand.

I’ve blogged about it before and there’s a bit of film here on YouTube so I won’t repeat myself but suffice to say that when I spotted a cuttlefish in Akumal Bay, I was unfeasibly thrilled and expected much the same behaviour.

The Akumal Bay cuttlefish was very different. It was about two feet from the seabed when I spotted it and looked like a Disney version of a sea-creature – about a foot long, sparkly pale pink and silver with a silver-white frill all around it and two enormous eyes. It was holding its tentacles primly together in a neat arrowhead at the front.

I stopped swimming and just lay watching. It saw me and turned from sparkly baby pink to turquoise, mauve, pale green and pink.   I retreated a little to show I wasn’t threatening it but giving it space.

The expected communication did happen. It swam up a bit and continued changing colours from second to second – an astonishing display. I swam forward a fraction and it retreated a little but rose in the sea to just below my eye level.

It was only about four feet away now almost directly in front of me, then it did a curious thing. I’m quoting from my diary now so you get the full gist… I called her “she” with no scientific evidence whatsoever other than she was an incredibly girly-pink cuttlefish..


“She did a curious thing with her tentacles. She loosed the arrowhead of tentacles and curled some upwards and some downwards giving a splayed-out effect before bringing them neatly together again.

“Then she brought her body into a curved vertical position in the water before going horizontal again.  All the time, the two big eyes were regarding me with, I felt, a degree of curiosity and intelligence.

“I stretched out one hand to her and waggled my pink painted nails. I felt her behaviour deserved some kind of reciprocal recognition. She wasn’t in the least phased and continued the constantly changing colour display including a turquoise the colour of my swimming cozzie.”

I’m not sure how long this went on. Time just stretches out when extraordinary things are happening. She swam closer and I swam very quietly alongside her with minimal movement for a short distance. So beautiful and so close!  If only I’d had the Go-Pro camera but I had nothing with me to record it.

Very shortly, she decided she’d had enough and literally shot off faster than a speeding bullet. Ok well faster than I could discern anyway!

As I was returning to shore, I saw her again in the next sandy clearing in the rocks. She was posed about a foot from the sea floor again. This time, I left her alone. We’d had our fun and she’d made it clear my time was up.

The turtles were one thing, tolerating my presence and allowing me to swim alongside for brief periods  – this beautiful communicating creature was quite another. I was convinced it was a cuttlefish so I looked it up on the Caribbean Reef website.

“The Caribbean Reef Squid…. Often mistaken for a cuttlefish… etc etc…

So I was communing with a squid! My Little Disney Princess Squid. An amazing, curious and communicative creature.

I may never order calamari again.


More about the Caribbean Reef Squid

From the Marine Invertebrates of Bermuda by Kelly M. Mackay:

It has been suggested that the Caribbean Reef Squid has its own ‘language,’ with visual signals constituting a vocabulary and syntax (Moynihan and Rodaniche, 1982). This suggestion exvokes many responses in the scientific community and poses such questions as, “do signals provoke different responses?”(Hanlon and Messenger, 1996), “are combinations of patterns designed for particular reasons?” and “can individuals ‘converse’ with one another?” (Moynihan and Rodaniche, 1982). Answers to such questions may lead to important revelations in squid society and behavior. Though limited knowledge is known on the various forms of visual signalling, much more research needs to be done to show the wide-ranging implications it can have.








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