logo
Fox cub found choking to death in football net

Fox cub found choking to death in football net

Yahoo4 days ago
A baby fox was found to be slowly choking to death after it got tangled up in a football net.
It became trapped at a school in Basildon, Essex, and was unable to breathe properly or escape, said South Essex Wildlife Hospital.
Lead vet Tom Linsel was called to the scene last week and managed to cut it free just in time.
Following treatment, it was released back to its mother in the wild. The school was told to lift its nets when not in use, so wildlife could pass through easily.
Follow Essex news on BBC Sounds, Facebook, Instagram and X.
Firefighters rescue fox cub with jar on its head
Rescued fox 'coated in bitumen and stuck to road'
Tongue-tied fox gets wrapped up with washing cover
South Essex Wildlife Hospital
Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

Your response to this baffling optical illusion could depend on where you grew up
Your response to this baffling optical illusion could depend on where you grew up

Yahoo

time2 hours ago

  • Yahoo

Your response to this baffling optical illusion could depend on where you grew up

When you buy through links on our articles, Future and its syndication partners may earn a commission. Last year we covered the 'coffer' illusion, a visual riddling that was blowing/bending/frying/breaking the internet's collective mind. And like all the best illusions, it seems this one keeps on giving, as new scientific research has revealed that your perception of it could be influenced by one unexpected factor. For the uninitiated, the coffer illusion depicts what appears to be a series of rectangles – but actually contains 16 circles. They're initially hard to spot, but once you've managed it, they can't be unseen (spoiler alert: they're in the gaps between the rectangles). How quickly you find the circles, though, could depend on where in the world you grew up. As reported by the Guardian, a study led by Ivan Kroupin at the London School of Economics has explored how people from different backgrounds interpret the coffer illusion, found that "people in the UK and US saw it mainly in one way, as comprising rectangles – while people from rural communities in Namibia typically saw it another way: as containing circles." So why the difference? The suggestion is that those hailing from western industrialised countries "are generally exposed to highly 'carpentered' environments, with lots of straight lines, right angles," whereas rural Namibians, for example, see the circles first because "their environments being dominated by structures such as round huts instead of angular environments." "During the data collection, it was quite striking to see individuals immediately identify and describe features of an image - circles - which took all authors a significant amount of time to identify at all," the study explains, before going on to suggest different responses to the illusion could hint at larger visual discrepancies between people. "In sum, the world does not look the same to all of us—the present results show this at the very least. And it remains a possibility that such cultural variation exists even at layers of visual perception previously assumed to be universal."

My father threw away my childhood possessions – then took his own life
My father threw away my childhood possessions – then took his own life

Yahoo

time3 hours ago

  • Yahoo

My father threw away my childhood possessions – then took his own life

Sometimes it's not something you've seen tangibly in front of you that stays with you for the rest of your days, be that a disturbing horror movie or real-life car crash. It's suddenly seeing nothing where something important should be. And nothing is exactly how I saw it when I stepped into my father's garage one day seven years ago, to find it starkly bare, voided of the classic dad-junk that had cluttered the space for years. Gone were the half-used paint cans and rusty garden tools, the grandchildren's obsolete toys and pieces of old furniture waiting to be fixed or upcycled. I should have felt admiration and approval, for his 'getting things done' and having a clear-out after a year of listlessness since Mum had died. Instead I felt a heart-sinking horror at the prospect the worst had happened. Buried beneath all that worthless flotsam had lived something of incalculable importance to me, which I'd entombed there for 'safekeeping' as I moved from house to house. It was a large cardboard box, emblazoned with the words 'DON'T THROW AWAY' in black marker pen on each side. It contained the entirety of my life mementoes: a distillation chiefly of my childhood, teenage and university years. Inside was the priceless time-capsule items one looks forward to revisiting one day: years' worth of personal journals; Polaroids and photos with no negatives; love letters; reams of teenage poetry; all my degree essays and education certificates; all the local newspaper and student-mag articles of my early journalism years. Essentially it held the most important artefacts, documents and keepsakes from the first 30 years of my life – I was 39 at the time. I knew there and then that it was all gone, and irretrievable: the 'clear-out' had taken place months prior, spontaneously, with Dad quick to exonerate himself by blaming the 'builder' he had hired to clear his garage and dispose of the contents, not realising or 'forgetting' my life-box was among it all. If there was one thing I knew about my father, it's that he was a terrible liar. He expected me to believe this workman had not checked with him despite the large letters daubed on the side of the box. He knew full well that box was there, why it was there and what it meant, and for reasons I'll never understand, he'd callously binned it himself with his own hands. This was established instantly: a swift phone call to the builder confirmed what I already knew: he hadn't cleared any garage or outbuildings as it wasn't part of his service remit, for anyone. But it didn't matter that Dad was 'busted'. He simply flapped about it being an easy mistake to make – and please don't go on about it as he had enough already on his plate and it was only old junk. It was in that bleak moment that the irony sledge-hammered me: I, someone who placed so much importance on physical memories, had left mine in the protection of someone who absolutely didn't. The bitterest pill for me, however, was that he had not even set it aside just in case, or made a quick call to check if I still wanted it. He didn't even need the space in his now-empty garage or the three-bed house he was rattling around in. It was the utter needlessness of the act that I couldn't fathom. But I simply had no choice but to chalk it up to 'experience'. I couldn't 'go on about it' as implored because Dad was a broken man, and had been since Mum's passing. He didn't know what to do with his life except wanting to end it, which he had not just threatened but attempted, hospitalising himself with a botched effort. I had to bury my acrimony. And the worst then happened only weeks later. He was gone for good after succeeding this time in taking his own life, and so the previous calamity was simply supplanted and snuffed out by the next. Both the throwing away of the box and then the throwing away of himself had been destructive acts over which I'd had no control, so I would just have to learn to accept and live with it. Covid arrived not long after, and a pandemic and lockdowns and everything else in those crazy couple of years kept me distracted and diverted from all that had happened before. And once the country was back to normality again, and I'd landed a long-term copywriting contract, I truly felt like I'd emerged from all the earlier heartache like a butterfly from a chrysalis. How wrong I would be. Five years on, in 2023, out of nowhere the grief returned with a vengeance, but this time transmuted into something closer to consuming anger and rancour – emotions I'd kept in check at the time because of the situation with Dad. They had lain dormant all those years until finally finding an opening to vent, the trigger being my deciding to clear out my own junk-filled spare room, and deciding what needed to be chucked. Suddenly the dam burst and it all flooded back. The Kübler-Ross grief stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – had basically been upended: I'd had to leapfrog straight to 'acceptance'. Turns out your mind doesn't let you off that lightly: there are no shortcuts. Those early stages are simply deferred, held 'in the bank', and I'd now experience the disbelief and ire years after the fact, long after thinking I was in the clear. Triggers arose everywhere: anything to do with history, personal possessions, memories, from someone mentioning something in conversation to a scene in a movie, would lead back to the feeling that part of me had died when that box went into landfill. Why on earth had I not liberated it when I had the chance, I'd continually curse myself, as if I'd had any way of knowing what was going to happen. Another grievance was that without any of my old ticket stubs or diary entries, I could no longer pinpoint the dates or times of anything I'd seen or visited – my curated life chronology now just a vague swirl of guesswork. Maybe that's a good thing, someone suggested to me: 'Without objects to steer your memory, you're free to remember anything in any order.' And that's what I've learnt to do now: to see things differently, or at least try to, or I'd just afflict my remaining life with futile recriminations over a deceased father who I can never otherwise properly mourn. Finding new meaning after loss is a powerful thing, someone else said to me. That helped clarify the importance of talking about it, whether to friends or a therapist, and not 'being a man' and just suppressing it all, as if that would help. Researching similar stories showed me I'm far from alone, from the theft of a removals truck containing an entire home's contents to storage-unit conflagrations, or the hapless man who couldn't afford to keep up with his storage arrears while seconded abroad and returned to find the company had subsequently destroyed his life possessions (was in the Ts-and-Cs, apparently). Writing about it helps, even if just as a warning to anyone likewise storing precious personal items with parents/relatives for 'safekeeping'. While the lesson is too late for me to learn, it should at least underscore the importance of keeping those things within your own control, their destiny in your own hands. Other recently emerging silver linings include my mind now compensating in other ways. Music has always been a potent transporter, but certain songs from my youth suddenly hold more evocative power than ever. I've also become given to organising large-scale social events, like an annual indoor mini-festival in a rural stately home for friends, or a high-school reunion attended by 120 people in my hometown – it's all about making the most of time left now, forging new life experiences I probably wouldn't otherwise have bothered with. On a practical note, as that box was the only thing I'd have rescued from a house fire, I no longer bother with contents insurance. Once the irreplaceable stuff is gone, everything else just becomes the opposite. Nowadays I can see more of the funny side, if you could call it that, of any of the triggers that not long ago plagued me. A recent Telegraph article on 'Döstädning' (decluttering) raised a smile at the irony of Dad's own little declutter session where he certainly was as 'ruthless' as the practice recommends. Earlier this year, during my latest fast-tracked bucket-list experience – a Beatles location pilgrimage in Liverpool, after a lifetime of Fab Four fandom – I was struck by a Paul McCartney quote reflecting on his unsteady relationship with John Lennon not long before his murder: 'His bluff was all on the surface. He used to take his glasses down, those granny glasses, and say, 'It's only me'…Those are the moments I treasure.' The truth of that line really chimed, that life is all about those moments that stay with you, so even if someone or something removes your physical reminders, they can't extinguish your actual memories of cherished lived moments, and it's those, once all is said and done, that sustain until the end. They can never be thrown away. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.

BBC researcher confirms tarantulas inhabit parts these areas of the UK
BBC researcher confirms tarantulas inhabit parts these areas of the UK

Yahoo

time3 hours ago

  • Yahoo

BBC researcher confirms tarantulas inhabit parts these areas of the UK

Did you know that the UK is home to a tarantula? The purseweb spider. And now we've officially entered spider season, you might catch a glimpse of one. The purseweb spider is Britain's only tarantula and a member of the family that contains these 'tropical giants'. Although the word 'tarantula' still strikes fear into hearts, you needn't worry. Nationally scarce purseweb #spider (Atypus affinis) in the #NewForest — Zoe (@zoecaals) March 18, 2019 According to Adele Brand, a wildlife researcher at BBC's Countryfile, the purseweb is a stay-at-home spider. It spends most of its life inside that silken tube, which has been compared to an old purse and a dirty sock—hence its name. The whole structure can be up to 25cm long but only a small part protrudes above the soil surface. The Missouri Department of Conservation says: "Purseweb spiders have large, imposing chelicerae, and like nearly all other spiders, they possess venom to subdue their prey and can potentially bite a human if mishandled. "But purseweb spider bites do not pose a danger to people, except for the rare cases of people who are highly sensitive to spider bites." Recommended reading: 400-year-old sharks lurking in the depths of British waters Great white sharks could migrate to UK waters by next year 40ft sharks may arrive in the UK as early as next month While much smaller than a true tarantula, it has some of their characteristics and still looks distinctively 'different' from our other British spiders with its heavy-set legs and large 'fangs' (properly called chelicerae). The spider operates these like parallel daggers, rather than the pincer-like movement of other British species. The body of a purseweb ranges from 1 to 3.8cm Sightings are possible in the North and South Downs, New Forest and other south-eastern sites, but a few are found as far north as Cumbria and south-western Scotland.

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into a world of global content with local flavor? Download Daily8 app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store