False accusations
Grandad May 29th, 2008
I love birds.
We lived for a while in Suburbia, and we considered ourselves lucky if a blackbird sang in our tree. We used to get magpies, but they aren’t any fun.
Here, we have birds by the bucketload, and the blackbirds and thrushes try to outdo each other in their songs and it is beautiful. We have an amazing variety of birds from the wrens who are nesting outside the kitchen window up to Bertie, the heron.
One thing they have a habit of doing is flying into our windows. There will be a loud bang, and another thrush or dove or something will end up somewhat dazed on the ground.
I often wonder at the outcome of these encounters with our glass.
Picture the scene - Female Thrush is sitting on the eggs in the nest. She is somewhat hungry and has sent Himself out to get some grub. He arrives back.
Her: Jayzus! Would you look at the state of you. Where have you been?
Him: I don’t know. I was flying along and suddenly I was on the flat of my back.
Her: You’ve been down the pub again. Haven’t you?
Him: No way! Stop nagging, woman. I have a slitting headache.
Her: It’s the same every time. I sit here minding your eggs, and all I ask is that you nip down to the compost heap for a half pound of grubs and a packet of worms, and you end up in the pub again.
Him: Aw, shut up woman. I wasn’t in the pub.
Her: Well? Where’s the groceries then?
Him: I didn’t get them. I forgot.
Her: *sigh. Men!*
Him: *sigh. Women!*
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