Simon Barnes is the multi-award-winning chief sportswriter at The Times and an author of 15 books including The Meaning of Sport en-uk Tue, 30 Oct 2007 15:37:29 GMT Copyright 2007 Times Newspapers Ltd. custserv@timesonline.co.uk http://www.timesonline.co.uk Sat, 07 Nov 2009 04:10:12 GMT Newspapers 144 21 http://www.timesonline.co.uk http://images.thetimes.co.uk/TGD/picture/0,,116979,00.gif Simon Barnes Sat, 07 Nov 2009 00:01:00 GMT 2009-11-05T04:25:30Z Rare birds are doing great. It’s the common birds that we need to worry about. Behind this apparent paradox lies one of the great problems of 21st-century life in the developed world. As we lose the common, the ambient, the next-door, so we lose ourselves, and our sense of who we are. Notebook: Simon Barnes Sat, 07 Nov 2009 00:01:00 GMT 2009-11-06T06:46:34Z We are the Millwall supporters of conservation. No one likes us, we don’t care. I used these words to celebrate the launch of a new conservation charity called Amphibian and Reptile Conservation (ARC). I have the somewhat unexpected honour to be a patron of this organisation not for my expertise in herpetology, but for my natural sympathy with the underfrog. Simon Barnes Sat, 31 Oct 2009 00:01:00 GMT 2009-11-02T02:00:42Z I made a pilgrimage to see egrets. I was living on an island off Hong Kong at the time and it was a bit of an undertaking: ferry to Hong Kong, bus through the Harbour Tunnel, train to the New Territories, then a bus. I ended up at Yim Hso Ta, and it was worth every second of the journey. Simon Barnes Sat, 31 Oct 2009 00:01:00 GMT 2009-10-30T06:55:50Z Massive reluctance. Half-finished whisky. But I made a superhuman effort, appropriate to a supercanine being. The walk had to be done. But the night was balmy, and our twin moonshadows marched alongside us. The dog fell behind — her walk stiff, always looking for a shortcut these days, her hearing indifferent, her mind lost in the unfathomable world of smells. Simon Barnes Sat, 24 Oct 2009 00:01:00 GMT 2009-11-02T11:57:25Z Horn, please! The invariable instruction inscribed on the back of every Indian lorry ever spawned; an invitation never known to have been refused. The sound of an Indian motor horn does not convey anger and reproach as in Britain; it is a greeting, an acknowledgement, a response to just about every stimulus the highway can offer.