Twitching

It seems the countryside is out to kill me but whether I die laughing or screaming remains to be seen. On the one hand we have the starlings fighting each other on the bird table, repeatedly falling off and  flapping about, and the several varieties of tits (blue, great and willow, I think) who were initially put off by the aggression of the bigger birds but which have got braver over the week and now dart through the squabbles, stealing choice pieces from beneath the claws and beaks, all dashing through the air almost too fast to register. There are collared doves on the grass, collecting whatever the tits miss, billing and cooing as they go, and red kites flying high, disdaining my mere mealworms in search of more exciting carrion elsewhere and, so far, just one goldfinch providing this morning’s moment of bird-watching excitement – omganewbird! Quick where’s the book…

On the other hand we have the mysterious smell in the kitchen… 

Removing the nasty old electric fire from the kitchen fireplace reveals one long dead and papery bird, one recently dead and maggotty, and one flustered jackdaw who flies straight over my shoulder, out the thankfully open door and sits on the hedge, eyeing me up as if the 400yr old chimney breast and his descent down it were entirely my design. After a good half hour of evil stare, he cleared off, presumably spreading the word that I am bad news as I haven’t seen a single jackdaw in days. I have, however, binned the manky old electric fire and cleaned and opened up the fireplace so any future adventurers can take their chances with the dogs rather than trying to fly back up the chimney. 

Near my old home in Kensington there was a blue plaque to Alfred Hitchcock and I can’t but help think that his ghost is out to get me as I was only just recalling an adventure many years ago in the roofs of the old Gainsborough Studios in Islington when a friend and I were exploring the abandoned building with the aid of her  trusty Maglight. After many corridors with little so see, all gloriously lit by the light of the torch, we opened a door and entered an area where the beam seemed to vanish into nowhere, illuminating nothing on the way;  we drew breath to comment on the exceptionally soft and deep carpet and unusual stillness of the air… and myriad feathers, feet, beaks and voices took to the air at once. As did we. We screamed; they screamed; we all flapped around in panic running and flying into each other whilst the torch, helpfully, was the only thing that headed towards the floor and inactivity. Vicky and I arrived back on the ground floor in something between an instant and eternity and had to admit to our friends, after several minutes of wide-eyed wheezing, that a mere flock of sleepy, London pigeons had reduced two educated,  modern, women into a couple of dumb, torch-losing, bimbos from a 50s b-movie. 

So, my dear Mr Jackdaw, you’ll have to work harder than that if you want to scare me – I have faced pigeons and survived. Just. 

 

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About woofbarkyap

Lady of Leisure. Dog behaviourist. NLP Master Practitioner. Ebay entrepreneur formerly running busy central London doggy daycare with global door to door dog and cat travel agency. Interested in psychology, cognition, learning theory, consciousness, history, steampunk, rock music and dogs. Plus just about everything else
This entry was posted in Cultural Antiquary, LIfe Skills, Uncategorized, Wonderful PLanet and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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