Snooker and ice hockey: a comparison

On Sunday I went to see an ice hockey match. No, not Canada vs the United States at the Winter Olympics, although that was taking place at a similar time. It was the rather less glamorous line-up of ‘Guildford Flames’ vs ‘Milton Keynes Lightning’, taking place at the Guildford Spectrum leisure centre.

Ten years ago or so I used to go and watch hockey matches quite regularly, supporting what was then known as the ‘Swindon Chill’. Alas, this team was as lousy as their name and the attraction of seeing them lose every week soon wore off. Nowadays they appear to have reverted to the infinitely better name of ‘Wildcats’, but are alas still languishing near the bottom of the league.

Ice hockey is a rapidly-moving sport in which the players alternate between highly skilful puck passing and beating hell out of each other. Only the most blatant infractions are called up by the referees, who then give out penalties with wonderfully euphemistic names: ‘hooking’ appears to mean jabbing a stick violently into an opponent’s stomach and trying to haul them backwards, ‘holding’ can mean physically sitting on another player to stop them from moving, and my absolute favourite ‘roughing’ means attempted murder.

As I watched what was a very entertaining match it struck me that ice hockey is the diametric opposite of snooker, the ‘sport’ (yes, I know that any game with Stephen Lee as a top player can’t really be called a sport) that I go to see most often. Now, this may seem a senseless comparison, what with hockey being a team game played on ice and snooker being a rather more sedate affair played on a posh table, but I’m going to make it nonetheless. I also can’t confess to knowing a great deal about ice hockey, but then again I’m not convinced there is a great deal to know.

My first point regards tactics. Snooker matches are as much down to clever thinking as they are down to skill with the cue. Players have definite strategies and plan out several shots in advance. When taking a shot the goal isn’t simply to get the object ball in the pocket; in addition the white needs to land in the perfect position for the next pot. If no pot is obvious then the white needs to bring a ball into a pottable position and finish neatly lined up with it. The precision required, and the rapid calculations of velocities and angles, are extraordinary.

In ice hockey on the other hand, any tactics employed are rather less obvious to a casual observer. The aim is to get the puck into the goal. That’s pretty much it. There don’t appear to be any great over-arching strategies, and indeed there is no need for there to be. Play moves so quickly up and down the rink that there simply isn’t any time for carefully planned-out formations. The players don’t have the opportunity to consider their next move; they have to react at almost the same instant that they receive the puck. Hesitate for even a second and they’ll find themselves bashed up against the wall by an opponent.

An entire ice hockey match is over in 60 minutes of play, separated into three equal periods. Given the constant stops and starts, and the need to resurface the ice, it does in reality take rather longer than this. However, it's still pretty short for a sports match. One of the reasons for this is that it's a supremely knackering game. The players charge up and down the rink at ferocious speeds and bash into each other at full-force. To allow the team to cope with this constant exertion there are plenty more players available on the bench than are needed on the ice at any one time, and they chop and change constantly.

For the snooker player there is no hope of a substitute when feeling Tired. Here the exhaustion is mental not physical and the match is very much head to head. It also lasts for much, much longer. Ronnie aside, most players take a good few seconds over each shot, and can deliberate for well over a minute if it's a tricky snooker. In the same period of time in ice hockey there could well have been two goals and a handful of penalties. Snooker frames can be over in 15 minutes if one player dominates and has a good run of the balls, but the majority will contain more safety play and so will last for rather longer. And of course one frame is not the entire match; the final of the World Championship is the best of 35 frames. 35 frames! That's insanely long.

Another difference is that struck me was the behaviour of the crowds. At the ice hockey there was constant cheering and chanting and bashing of drums, and the rink positively exploded each time a home goal was scored. In contrast, snooker audiences keep incredibly quiet, bursting into applause after good shots but rapidly quieting down lest the referee turns and tells them off. I can't imagine any hockey referee complaining to a fan unless they actually chucked something onto the ice, and even then if it was something small and fluffy they’d probably get away with it. After all, the refs are too busy trying to stop the players from committing grievous bodily harm to pay much attention to such minor matters.

Strangely, and despite the differences of the loud and brash versus the quiet and collected, the atmosphere at both sports is really rather good. The ice hockey crowd is more obviously entertaining and being entertained, but the tense excitement at a snooker game can't be matched. Both are niche sports and have small but dedicated fanbases which give events a real welcoming feel. Personally, snooker appeals more due to its more cerebral nature and the sheer variety of play from match to match. But when I want a good burst of adrenaline, I'll certainly give ice hockey another try.

‘Waiting for Godot’ at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket

Samuel Beckett's 1953 play 'Waiting for Godot' was one of the West End’s hot tickets last year; its pairing of Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart proving so popular that every seat for every performance was sold. Luckily for the likes of me it has been revived for an additional eleven weeks this year, still with McKellen as Estragon (or Gogo) but now with Roger Rees as Vladimir (or Didi). Tickets now seem to be rather less in demand, which worked out beautifully as I was able to procure Royal Circle tickets for the princely sum of £20 each. Used as I am to sitting in the Upper Circle or the Balcony, I found this whole experience rather novel: going to see a play and not being several stories above the action? Being able to stretch my legs out? Sitting in a seat with a padded back? What luxury! I'd better not get used to it, or things could get expensive.

Anyway, to the play. It's an odd one, this. I can understand why many people don't like it, seeing as the entire plot can be described as 'two old tramps wait for a man called Godot to turn up'. That isn't a summary, by the way, it's all that happens. Most tales can be said to have a beginning, a middle and an end; 'Waiting for Godot' cannot. We simply watch Gogo and Didi over two days, two days that are essentially identical. Then it stops. The audience doesn't need to see any more; if there were to be a third day it would simply be the same as the first two, and so there is no point in carrying on.

Put like this, it all sounds terribly dull, but somehow, and I'm not exactly sure why, it isn't. It definitely helps that the two tramps are quite entertaining characters who keep a veneer of comedy to hide the tragedy of their lives. They are rather like a musical double-act that has fallen on hard times, an impression reinforced by the ruined-theatre setting (the script originally called for a country road) and the little dances and hat-switching routines that they perform. Neither managed to completely conceal their deep-seated despair, however. For Gogo this manifests as grumpiness, resignation and thoughts of suicide. Didi, on the other hand, expresses his discontent in animated monologues and restlessness.

The pair mostly seem to pass the time with brief, intense conversations and by trading insults. Each day this interaction is interrupted by the arrival of the rich, larger than life Pozzo and his slave Lucky. Pozzo, who is played with great gusto by Matthew Kelly, has a rather strange relationship with Ronald Pickup’s dutifully obedient Lucky. The two are linked by a rope that runs around the latter’s neck, and although Pozzo is clearly the dominant one it would seem that neither could do without the other, much as is the case for Gogo and Didi. Pickup has a wonderfully crumpled old face and an impressive head of long, white hair that is probably a wig but that I wish was his own. Most of the time he is left to stand, eyes to the ground, as the action (such as it is) carries on about him. He is not without his moment of glory, however. This comes when he is asked to dance, and then to think, at which point he lets out an incredible, barely-comprehensible monologue that is really rather exhausting to listen to.

There are many themes that could be said to run through 'Waiting for Godot', from the religious to the political, from the existential to the absurd. Many trees worth of paper has been consumed in its analysis, a process that I find rather mystifying especially given that even Beckett didn't seem too clear on what it was about. For me, it was a great evening out at the theatre seeing an interesting, impeccably-acted play in which not a lot happened. That's all it was, and in my mind that's all it needs to be. I would thoroughly recommend it.

Waiting for Godot

The Walnut Orb-Weaver Spider

I found this spider crawling around on the side of a shed last summer. With its dark, leathery, flattened body and disconcertingly slow movement, it seemed rather, well, sinister. It certainly appeared much meaner than most of the spiders to be found in the garden: a sneaky, dangerous-looking creature with something of the night about it. Concerned that it might be capable of a nasty bite, I left it well alone.

In fact, this little beastie is a perfectly ordinary, harmless garden spider. Despite being extremely common it is rarely seen as it is mostly active at night. During the day it squeezes its thin body into crevices, often under bark, hidden well out of sight of any predators. Then in the evening it emerges, cautiously, and spins its flat, circular web. Once it has finished this construction it will move to the web’s centre and stay there perfectly still, waiting for unwary flying insects to get trapped.

If the spider feels spooked during the night it will return to hide in its crevice, slowly following a guideline of silk. Before the sun rises it completely dismantles its web, leaving no trace that it was ever there. Given that the webs can reach 70 cm in diameter, this daily cycle of building and demolition seems like an extraordinary waste of effort. Maybe all this work just fills the time, or maybe the webs are actually a bit naff and so wouldn't last more than a night anyway.

If you spot one of these spiders it's likely to be a female. These are bigger, at up to 15 mm long, and are active all year. Males on the other hand only ever grow to 9 mm and are only out and about during the summer. Interestingly, if you pick up a male it may bite you, although however hard it chomps down it won't do you any real harm. The Walnut Orb-Weaver would seem therefore not to be the villain it appears. It does 'live in the shadows' as its Latin name Nuctenea umbractica implies, but this is simply because it is too cowardly to come out during the day.

Have the Brecon Beacons ever looked so good?

The Brecon Beacons National Park is an area of outstanding natural beauty beloved of British Army trainees, who frequent it for weekends of exercise, fresh air and teamwork.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it's an area that can look quite attractive on the rare occasions when the cloud lifts and it stops raining and you can haul yourself high enough out of the bog to get a look. And maybe the reason the Army uses it so much is that getting round the place is quite hard work, but not such hard work that they can't load up their recruits with ridiculously heavy bags and still expect them to run for 12 hours non-stop.

The hills themselves are quite strange beasts; their broad, plateau summits and perilously steep sides give them the impression of being vast mountains that have had their tops lopped off. On paper they would appear to be quite easy to conquer, and although they are certainly no great behemoths those flat areas are no walk in the park. Rather, they are a walk through a peat bog. Now, don't get me wrong, bog hopping can be quite good fun if you haven't done it for a while, but its appeal tends to wear off rather suddenly the instant you find yourself thigh-deep in brown, smelly goo. Gaiters will of course help to lessen the effects, but there will almost always be a bit of damp, runny mud that manages to trickle its way into your boot, down your ankle and onto your already-cold toes. And that is not a pleasant feeling at all.

So, as we set off to south Wales last Saturday morning we were expecting to spend the weekend trudging through the mire. We weren't particularly concerned about this as it's what we end up doing a lot of the time, and strangely we do quite enjoy it. However, as we drove further west the world became whiter and whiter. Snow! Amazing! My excitement was tempered somewhat by the fact that I was on hold to the Crucible Theatre box office in an attempt to get snooker tickets and the music they were forcing down my ear was really quite piercing, but by the time we reached the National Park proper the tickets were booked and my attention was turned fully towards the hills. Darn, they looked good!

Our initial plans were for a rather long day out. We parked next to Talybont Reservoir (SO 099197), with an out-and-back trip to Pen y Fan as our goal. As we trudged up through the ever-deepening snow to Allt Lwyd (078189) however, it became clear that this was a little on the over-ambitious side. Not to worry though, the day was quite simply glorious and we didn't really care about tagging summits as we had, after all, been up them all before anyway. We were out and about, with blue skies and sparkling snow, and hardly anyone else was up there with us.

As we ascended a fine ridge up to the first plateau of the day it almost seemed like we were in the Alps, so impressive was the view. Once up on the flat we meandered around in a general north-westerly direction, hoping that the looping tracks we were leaving would make a good pattern when viewed from above. Amusingly, on our way back we discovered that people coming afterwards had used our tracks as a guide, thereby wasting themselves huge amounts of time if they had wanted a direct route to the next hill! We carried on through the col at 057206 and onto the next area of plateau, at which point the view really struck us:

Wow! Pen y Fan looked like a monster! A huge, snow-covered beast with sharp ridges, plunging cliffs and precarious cornices. I desperately wanted to hurry on and climb it. Except, hang on a minute - what's that?

Yuck! People everywhere! Clustering like flies all over the mountain’s towering glory. Maybe we would give it a miss, after all.

You see, a major part of the attraction of the hills for me is the sense of solitude. We live our lives in towns and cities, surrounded by other people, crowded and hemmed in, and so every once in a while (actually, as often as possible) it's good to get away, to stand somewhere in the countryside and have no one else in sight. I am too antisocial to enjoy walking up a hill in a line with tens of others; I want it to be my hill, with my view, and I don't want to share it with anyone other than my close friends. Selfish, I know, but that's the way it is. So I was happy to leave Pen y Fan to the masses and instead enjoy getting knee-deep on Gwaun Cerrig Llywdion.

We did go and tag Fan y Big (036205), mostly because we are shockingly immature and find its name hilarious. But otherwise we were happy to stumble about on our plateau, keeping to the centre so as to avoid the people following the line of the paths which skirt the edge. It was hard going pushing through untrodden snow, and walking through the peat hags felt rather eerie, but I was happy. The hags themselves may have been imposing, but the icicles forming on their sides were beautiful. I broke one off to try as a free 'lolly', but didn't get very far through it as, somewhat predictably, it tasted rather too much of grass and peat.

We wandered back through the col and onwards to the eastern edge of the hill, where we had a decision to make: same way down, or different? Obviously we plumped for the different way, which turned out to be a most excellent choice. The first part of the descent was fairly steep and fairly uninteresting, but then the gradient became even more extreme. There was no way we were going to bother walking down that. Not when we could slide! Richard pulled on his friction-reducing waterproof trousers, I jumped into a survival bag, and we were off!

Initially, Richard was having a great time sliding rapidly downwards, but unfortunately for me we had gone at about the same time and it was all I could do not to slam into his back. Even with my elbows jabbed into the ground to try and brake I was gaining on him. Just as I was about to lose control I lurched over to the right, pulling myself clear. I then careered at an incredible speed down the hill, going faster faster faster. This was better than any rollercoaster ride! After what must only have been a handful of seconds, but which felt much longer, the ground flattened out and I spun myself to a halt. That had been amazing! A university group had watched our descent, and I could tell they were impressed. Casually, we packed the survival bag and trousers away and continued on back to the car.

The Libel Reform Campaign

If you have any interest in maintaining the freedom of speech, the openness of scientific debate and the ability of people to question the actions of corporations, the Libel Reform Campaign needs your help. The extent to which the UK’s woeful libel laws are harming not just the individuals being sued but the public at large is frightening. Defendants are presumed guilty until they can prove their innocence, injunctions are rushed out to block any reporting of cases, and lawyer’s bills quickly mount up to millions of pounds. It doesn't matter whether the alleged slur took place in the UK either; cases can be dragged into London from pretty much anywhere in the world in what is known as 'libel tourism'.

People certainly need a means of recourse if something false and reputation-damaging has been said about them, and so the campaign is not suggesting that the libel laws are abolished altogether. However, it does question whether large companies should be treated in the same way as individuals, whether comments made on Internet chat forums should be treated in the same way as the formal articles in the national press, and whether payouts should be so huge that making a libel claim is seen as a valid way of earning money. With the laws as they are, the only real winners seem to be lawyers and those rich enough to afford their exorbitant fees.

A lawyer, the only sort of person who really benefits from the law as it stands.

There have been three recent cases involving scientists which highlight quite how dangerous the current situation is. Firstly, there is Simon Singh, a mathematician and author of many popular science books. His problems started when he wrote a comment piece in the Guardian newspaper in which he accused the British Chiropractic Association (BCA) of promoting bogus treatments. Following the piece’s publication, the BCA sued for libel.

Now, if Singh had been rubbishing the whole of chiropractics with no supporting evidence, the BCA may have had a point. However, all he was pointing out was that no evidence exists for chiropractors’ claims that they can cure things like infant colic and asthma with their back manipulations. If anyone was at fault then surely it was the BCA for promising results from treatments that have been shown to be ineffective? Not according to Mr Justice Eady, who ruled against Singh. Aware of what a damaging precedent this could set for freedom of speech, Singh decided to risk his money on an appeal, which has yet to take place.

Another example is the case of Henrik Thomsen from the University of Copenhagen. Thomsen, a radiologist, had long been concerned about the safety of a gadolinium-containing contrast agent (something given to patients before they have an MRI scan to help things show up better) called Omniscan. Worrying numbers of patients suffering from kidney problems who had taken Omniscan ended up developing a very serious medical condition known as nephrogenic systemic fibrosis. As any responsible scientist would, Thomsen spoke about his fears at a conference in Oxford.

Rather than looking at Thomsen’s research and considering whether they should act to stop Omniscan from being used on vulnerable patients, its manufacturer General Electric Healthcare instead decided to sue Thomsen for libel. It claimed for damages and legal costs (probably more than £380,000) and attempted to gag the radiologist, preventing him from spreading his message further. Luckily, GE Healthcare have now dropped their suit, but what if similar companies are doing similar things? What if deaths are being caused by companies hiding evidence in this manner? In this light, the need for libel reform seems really rather urgent.

Peter Wilmshurst, a consultant cardiologist at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital, has been sued for libel by NMT Medical over comments he made about their product STARFlex, a device that is designed to close holes in the heart. Wilmshurst was involved with research that was investigating whether STARFlex helped to reduce the incidence of migraine in some patients. The result of the trial was negative; the device didn't seem help with what it had been designed for. Wilmshurst came up with some ideas as to why this was so, but NMT Medical disagreed. When the cardiologist spoke about the trial at a conference, criticising the company, they sued.

Science will just stop working if things carry on in this way, with scientists at risk of being sued for libel if they say anything, however justified, that criticises a company or its products. This is not a system designed to let the truth win out; rather it allows the people or entities with the most money to stifle debate. Singh and Wilmshurst are risking everything they own in order to fight the charges against them. Not every scientist is in a position to do this, nor would every scientist be willing to, believing the risks to themselves and their families to be just too great.

And it's not just science that is the issue here. Journalists, comedians, broadcasters, anyone who writes or says something potentially controversial is at risk. Things need to be changed.

Please go to www.libelreform.org and sign the petition there.

The Victoria and Albert Museum

The Victoria and Albert Museum is hardly 'unknown' London, being as it is the world's largest museum of art and design containing over 4.5 million objects. And yet, even on supremely busy days when the queues to get into the Natural History and Science Museums are snaking their way down Exhibition Road, it is possible to find a quiet spot where you can peruse the exhibits in peace. This is for two main reasons: firstly the museum's sheer size (I have visited a fair few times now and am still finding a wealth of new galleries on each visit), and secondly the fact that it doesn't really appeal to children. This is not a museum filled with hands-on displays, flashing lights and electronic beeps; instead it simply presents its objects as they are, letting the sheer quality do the talking.

The variety of exhibits is astounding. Where else is it possible to view samurai swords, Renaissance sculpture, one of Mick Jagger's stage outfits and a hurdy-gurdy all under one roof? And remarkably it is all interesting. Even the things that sounded hugely dull to me before I visited turned out to be fascinating. For example, a gallery dedicated to ironwork that I expected to walk straight through ended up containing extremely intricate locks with their mechanisms completely visible as well as imposing gates and a rose with petals so delicate they almost looked real.

My most recent visit was this Saturday, and as usual I covered a considerable amount of new territory. Here are some of the objects that I regarded as highlights:

Samson slaying a Philistine by Giambologna, 1562, Florence.

My favourite sculpture in the whole of the museum, this grand piece has recently been moved near the entrance to give it the prominence it deserves. One of the very few works by Giambologna to have left Italy, it was based on an idea of Michelangelo and was his first major commission. It depicts the Old Testament Judge Samson slaying a Philistine with an ass’s jawbone; a common subject but one rarely executed with such skill.

Despite having spent more than three hundred years outside, the marble is still incredibly detailed and we can see clearly the lean muscle of the men, the intricate folding of the cloth and the texture of their hair. Unlike many sculptures this was designed to be viewed from any angle; it does not have a 'front' and so the viewer has to walk all around to appreciate it fully. The cold stone may be immobile but this does not prevent it from having a real sense of movement, of violence and of urgency. The men's faces also tell a tale: the features of the Philistine convey real panic, whereas Samson shows only cool dispassion.

The Upas, or Poison Tree, on the Island of Java by Francis Danby, 1820s, Britain.

The work of Francis Danby belongs to the school of Romanticism with its towering hills, dazzling sunsets and epic vistas. 'Romantic' scarcely seems like an appropriate word to describe this painting, however. At first it appears simply to be a view of a clearing surrounded by steep-sided mountains; dark, yes, and certainly grand, but nothing too unsettling. A step closer, and everything changes. The man in the foreground who from a distance could be thought simply to be leaning over is revealed to be turning away in disgust and fear, patterns on rocks are resolved into skeletons, all suddenly reeks of death and decay.

The inspiration for this painting came from a poem by Erasmus Darwin, who wrote the following notes:
'There is a poison-tree in the island of Java, which is said by its effluvia to have depopulated the country for twelve or fourteen miles...condemned criminals are sent to the tree...and are pardoned if they bring back a certain quantity of the poison.'
A grim subject indeed. The painting is not without a ray of hope, however. Far away in the distance are the snow-covered peaks of less doom-filled mountains and the stars are still twinkling in the blue-black sky.

Iron comb, Berlin, 1820s.

The Victoria and Albert Museum contains a great many shiny things, and the highest concentration of these is found in the jewellery section. 'Dazzling' is the only word that can adequately describe this gallery, surely a criminal's dream with so many diamonds and precious gems all lined up together. I personally am not a great jewellery fan and so found many of the items hideous, but it was nonetheless impossible not to admire the skill of the craftsmen who had created such things.

One case in particular stood out to me, being as it was an oasis of light relief in the midst of all that sparkling. There were no jewels to be found here; instead all the pieces were fashioned out of cast iron, giving them a delightfully Tim Burton-esque feel. The comb above is a prime example. Its dark, Gothic decoration makes it seem suited to the graveyard, and yet such items were only worn by women in the very upper echelons of Society. The style is known as 'Berlin iron' and was not widely popular outside Germany. Unfortunately most examples have now rusted away.

The Ommeganck in Brussels on 31 May 1615: The Triumph of Archduchess Isabella by Denis van Alsloot, 1615.

This remarkable oil painting, which shows a grand circus-like procession, is one of the first exhibits to be seen in the Theatre gallery. The above scene is only a tiny portion of the painting, which in turn depicts only one sixth of the entire parade. The whole event, bizarrely held to celebrate the moving of an image of the Virgin Mary across Brussels a long time earlier, must have been truly spectacular!

The style of painting is not the most accomplished and is rather cartoony, but given the subject matter this seems appropriate. Most impressive is the sheer amount of detail that has been crammed in. We can see each individual performer, each crowd member (some of whom appear to be engaged in scuffles), each horse and rider, each banner. It is a scene full of energy, full of excitement, full of spectacle, and as such is a perfect introduction to all the aspects of theatre that are explored later in the gallery.

Plaster cast of the Tomb of St Sebaldus, Peter Vischer, 1519, Nuremberg (original).

I will never tire of the cast rooms in the Victoria and Albert Museum, they are quite frankly amazing. Unfortunately one is undergoing work at the moment, but the other is fully available to wander around and gape at. The idea behind them is this:
In most cases if the British wanted something archaeological or cultural from a different country they just took it (see the British Museum for extensive examples of this). However, in some countries, such as most of Europe, this sort of stealing wasn't an option, and so instead plaster casts were taken. These plaster replicas allowed students of architecture, for example, to learn and be inspired by all sorts of objects without having to actually go abroad to see them. Lots of these casts now have ended up in the Victoria and Albert Museum, collected together in these huge rooms. Tombs, archways, Tabernacles, pulpits, statues and (most impressively) the enormous Trajan’s column, are all sat there right next to each other. It is completely bonkers. Go and see it.

Once you have got over the sheer wow-factor of the room it is possible to take in and appreciate some of the detail. When looked at closely, the Tomb of St Sebaldus shown above is hard to beat. Little creatures and people are everywhere, playing instruments, arguing with each other, looking bored, looking menacing. No surface is left undecorated, even those too far into the centre to eyeball closely. St Sebaldus himself is something of a mystery. No one seems to really know when he lived or what he actually did; he might have been a hermit and was probably a missionary, but as for anything else, who knows? Regardless of whether it was deserved or not, there's no denying he got a cracking tomb. My favourite thing about it? It's supported by snails!

All pictures are from the website of the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Hermit crabs

Hermit crabs are a common sight by the seaside, most often spied crawling around in rock pools. Adults vary in size from around 15 to 150 millimetres. Their most prominent features are their shells, and yet these are not really part of the crab at all. Most crabs have a hard carapace that they produce themselves, but hermit crabs have soft, easily-damaged bodies and would quickly be killed without further protection. Because of this they search out the empty shells of gastropods such as whelks and periwinkles. As they grow they have to find bigger shells that can accommodate their increased body size. There is often much competition for the best shells, but once a crab has successfully obtained one it will insert its asymmetrically twisted abdomen far inside until only the front two pairs of legs remain out in the open.

Technically the crabs have five pairs of legs, but the back two of these are too small and puny to be much use for anything other than holding on to the shell, and so remain tucked away inside. The second and third sets are larger and stronger and so are used for walking, but even these are dwarfed by the first set. The front right leg has a large claw that is used for holding food and for fighting, and the smaller claw on the front left leg is used to help with eating.

Hermit crabs aren't fussy about what they eat; if they can catch it they'll have it. Any animal and vegetable matter scavenged from the seafloor will do. The crabs often have a symbiotic relationship with other creatures such as sea anemones which come and live on their shells. The crabs get camouflage and protection and in return the anemones get to eat any leftover food. Sometimes this relationship becomes so established that the anemone will 'move house' along with the crab when it changes shells.

Male hermit crabs can be quite aggressive when the time comes to mate, and will grab hold of female crabs, fighting off any competing suitors with their large right claws. Male reproductive organs are located behind their rearmost legs whereas those of the female are on the third pair. On the left-hand side of the female abdomen are structures known as pleopods which are used to carry the fertilised eggs. The baby hermit crabs do a fair amount of their development whilst tucked away here inside the eggs. When they eventually hatch and venture out into the sea they are tiny, shrimp-like creatures in desperate need of a shell.

This hermit crab lives in a tank at the Anglesey Sea Zoo, a small aquarium that only has native sea creatures on display. It is well worth a visit, with its lobster breeding programme being a particular highlight. The zoo is also a good reminder of what a great range of sea life we have in the UK, and reinforces the fact that creatures don't have to be exotic to be interesting. Great satisfaction can be derived from learning about the animals 'indoors' and then going and finding the wild versions just outside.

Anglesey Sea Zoo