I had a funny feeling eating away at me, all day, the feeling of having forgotten something.
I forgot to go outside.
Sorry, Mother. I’ll go out twice, tomorrow.
Today was a funny day. I woke up early, because a starling was sitting on my elliptical machine, churring unpleasantly to itself. I wonder if that’s the first time it’s been in my bedroom, or if this is a regular occurrence? I’m beginning to regret encouraging that starling to land here. It makes some very peculiar noises, at all sorts of hours. Last night, just after dark, I was playing Fatal Frame (which, as any horror game aficionados out there can attest to, is creepy as hell). I was sneaking through a series of darkened rooms, on high alert for horrible ghosts, when didn’t this soft, conversational paaaaarp come floating in the window? I jumped about a foot, choked on my biscuit (oh, yeah; I was eating a biscuit), and threw my controller at the TV. The starling gave me a strange look, and hopped off the windowsill.
Anyhow, back to this morning — I woke up, and there it was again, parked on the elliptical machine. I wasn’t pleased to see it. Birds are supposed to stay outside. They’re dirty, and have poor bowel control. They rip things up. And I think one of them stole my computer headphones. They were sitting RIGHT HERE, by the computer, and now they’re not. And I looked for them everywhere: under my desk, in the drawers, under the sofa, between the cushions, under my chair, in my pockets — well, you get the idea. I haven’t had any kleptomaniacs round, so either I put them somewhere really weird, or a bird took them.
This morning, though. This morning! (Sorry; I keep getting sidetracked.) Where was I? Oh, right. Crack of dawn, bird in the bedroom; when I shooed it, I noticed it found the window with no trouble. I hope that doesn’t mean it’s used to popping in and out, as it pleases! So, of course, I didn’t want to use the elliptical machine, after a bird had stuck its feet who-knows-where. Not without a good wipe, at any rate. I went in the kitchen, got some soap and water, and gave it a good going over. What I didn’t notice, however, was that some of the soapy water had run down the handles, and into the fan. The minute I switched it on, I got a faceful of mucky starling water.
Life’s just a bit shite, isn’t it? Even the good things are tainted; nothing’s ever quite perfect. Somehow, a starling (or starling-analogue) always gets in.
On a different, but equally strange, note, I had an interesting crow encounter, this morning. Remember how I mentioned the crows had come over all shy, after suspected abuse from Mr. Dolgonosov? Well, this morning, they were up to their usual tricks, dancing about on the railing, peering in the window, fluttering from perch to perch. They were croaking, as well, nervously and persistently, and it was getting right up my nose. Dreadful racket. So I started singing. Almost immediately, the crows stopped croaking, jumped on the feeder, and ate without hesitation. When I stopped singing, they hopped back onto the railing, and showed every sign of trepidation. I started singing again, and — bop! — into the feeder they went. There I was, serenading a couple of crows, so they’d eat. Aren’t THEY the ones meant to be singing for their supper?
I have a handful of theories as to why my voice gave the crows confidence, arranged in order of plausibility:
1) As long as they could hear me, they knew where I was. Thus, they didn’t have to keep hopping up on the railing, to check my position. I could’ve been doing pretty much anything (singing, talking, crumpling up pieces of paper), as long as it made a sound.
2) When I sing, I sound like one of their own.
3) Music really does have charms to soothe the savage breast!
Finally, in crow news, the injured crow is now looking so much better I can hardly pick him out from the crowd! (Indeed, the only way I recognised him, this morning, was by the two wee ones following in his shadow.) At long last, a story with a happy ending. Now, maybe he’ll shit on Mr. Dolgonosov, and we’ll all be thrilled.
And this is a gull, coming in for a landing:
Flump!
