The Disappearance of Indigo

As much as I admire your jumper, said Pliny thoughtfully, I prefer the colour indigo, which is a darker shade of blue. We ancients valued it highly. We imported it from India, in the form of a blue pigment, and used it extensively in painting and dyeing.

I like indigo as well, I said. But nowadays it's considered by most modern colour scientists not to be a separate colour at all.

Surely not! said Pliny, looking shocked.

Oh yes. Indigo has a wavelength between 420 and 450 nanometres, and anything with a wavelength shorter than 450 nanometres is classified as violet.

Outrageous! It looks nothing at all like violet.

That is probably what Newton thought. Although, apparently when he first identified the colours in the optical spectrum he only differentiated five. It was only later that he added orange, and then indigo.

After he had looked a little more carefully, nodded Pliny.

No, after he had decided that there ought to be seven colours in the spectrum, to match the number of days of the week, the number of notes in the major scale, and the number of planets that were known at the time.

Aha, said Pliny. I see. Now that makes perfect sense. Who is this excellent Newton?

Now the Magpie

Pliny the Elder is giving me a lecture on the subject of talking birds. I am only half listening.

The parrot, he intones, is a green bird with a red circlet round its neck, and comes from India. It can be taught to greet its master and repeat words. Its head and beak are very hard. While being taught to speak it must be beaten on the head with an iron bar. Its head is so hard that it will feel nothing less. Its feet are weak, so it alights on its beak, in order to support itself .........

Suddenly a scratchy voice pipes up: Tch tch tch! That's right ! Hit the birds! Hit the birds!

It sounds like, could it be ......Victor the deceased talking budgie? He seems rather cross.

It's cruel ! That's what it is, cruel ! he squawks.

Victor! I cry. Is it you? Are you not deceased?

Are you not ? Are you not? he twitters.

No I'm not, but Pliny here has been, I answer.

Well! He should know!! Tch tch tch! He stares at Pliny aggressively. Pliny the Elder shrugs.

I decide a tactful change of subject is required. Lately, I say, there has been a great deal written in the newspapers blaming birds for various disasters which I myself do not think is entirely fair, and I am sure Pliny agrees with me.

Victor cocks his head on one side.

Yes, I continue, the recent plane that crashed into the Hudson River is said to have gone down due to hitting a flock of birds. And closer to home the terrible fires in Port Lincoln last week were blamed by a farmer on a pelican flying into electricity wires. The farmer said it happens quite a lot. The pelican ignites and all the flaming pieces float down into the dry grass and start a fire.

Victor emits a terrible screech of horror, and disappears like a phoenix in a firestorm, leaving only a smoking feather behind.

Well, said Pliny, I suppose I must thank you for that. Now the magpie.........