MOST of us would have sailed through life oblivious of Lord Howe Island had the Royal Navy's HMS Nottingham not sailed into it this week.

At seven miles long and nearly two miles wide, you might have thought it difficult to miss, but then the RN did recently invade a sandy Spanish beach in the belief that it was the big rock that is Gibraltar.

Every shipwreck has a silver lining and, as Lord Howe Island hoves into our consciousness, it turns out to be a fascinating place. It was discovered by Lieutenant Henry Lidgbird Ball in 1788 when Britain really did rule the waves. He named one of the highest peaks after himself - Mount Lidgbird - and named the island after the First Lord of the Admiralty, Earl Richard Howe, or "Black Dick" to his men.

British sailors on Lord Howe Island quickly became acquainted with the native flightless bird, the woodhen. What curiosity did for the cat, it all but did for the Lord Howe Island woodhen. Never having seen a human, the woodhens heard the strange noise of the sailors, curiously wandered over to see what all the fuss was about, and were eaten.

The sailors wanted to keep these easy pickings alive for the long voyage home, so they broke the woodhens' legs to stop them wandering about the boat. But when you break a woodhen's legs, the pain causes it to emit a "doleful cry". Every woodhen from miles around heard the peculiar noise and curiously wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. The sailors picked them up, broke their legs, lobbed them onto their boat and sailed for home with a full larder.

It was just the start of the woodhen's worries. Rats escaped from the sailors' ships and ate the woodhens' eggs. Man introduced owls to the island to eat the rats, but instead the owls tucked into baby woodhens.

Then man introduced the pig as an alternative food source, but the pigs devoured any woodhen that survived the ravages of the rats and the owls. By 1980, only a couple of woodhens remained but, with 183 pigs culled, they have successfully been re-introduced to the rest of the island.

They still, though, come running out of the woods if they hear a human making a silly noise. Some birds just will not learn.

A DISTRESSING week. My gums feel like a heroin addict's arm as the dentist tries desperately to shore up my ageing teeth. My hairdresser tells me that this summer's trend is for highlights but then laughs as she informs me that I didn't have enough hair left for even one lowlight. And then the optician tells me that for the first time in my entire short-sighted existence my eyes have improved ever so slightly. But this merely means that long-sightedness, the affliction of old age, is officially kicking in. Finally, on Thursday, I agree with every word of a Daily Telegraph leader. There is no future.

TERRY Venables is a man of many plans, the best of which was laid when he was 18 and a professional footballer at Chelsea. He set up a company called Thingummywigs to market a hat-cum-wig that women could wear over their curlers when they went out shopping. The Thingummywig didn't catch on in 1961 but maybe David Beckham, following his feminine flirtation with pink nail varnish, will change all that in 2002.