Blackbird

I don’t have many constant chores, but the single regular job I have to do each evening is the washing-up. It’s the one thing that I’ll do without being asked more than six times. We don’t own a dishwasher. I’m the dishwasher. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it, but I’m usually so crestfallen after a lengthy stint on the M25 that I’m too tired to act up and risk a turn on the naughty step by stamping my feet. So, after dinner each day, on go the marigolds, the digital radio fixed on Absolute Classic Rock, and I crack open the tub of elbow grease, resigned to the task ahead.

Over the last few days, though, I’ve been transfixed by a single Blackbird that has appeared at exactly the same time each evening to hop around in our semi re-turfed garden looking for food. I know it’s a she (as when I was younger I remember being puzzled about how a Blackbird could be brown) and I know she’s seen me watching her bounding around the recently mown grass because she’s stared directly at me as I’ve bobbed my head to the Blue Oyster Cult and then turned about and carried on foraging for food, regardless. She’s out there right now; I’ve just turned my head and seen her zip away out of the corner of my eye.

For a perennial daydreamer, it’s amazing how the simplest things can hold your attention for so long.

I like birds. You’ll see that in all the photos I’ve taken from my study window. I mistakenly thought that clearing the bushes and small trees from my garden would cause a lot of our feathered visitors to relocate to a more protected area. What’s actually happened is that by digging up a bordered area of soil I’ve exposed about a thousand worms, and it’s drawn even more. It’s like an aviary out there. What the hell am I doing writing about birds in our garden, you might ask? The problem is, it’s created a bit of a dilemma for me. For someone born into a Catholic family, I’ve got unorthodox views on karma. I feel guilty because I was the one who disturbed the worms, and because I didn’t lift a pan to bang on the window when the bird eventually caught one. This is the strange way my mind works. If a cat found its way into our garden though, I’ll happily chase it away. I prefer birds. And dogs. All the enemies of cats. Still, it takes my mind off the fucking washing up.

As you can tell, I don’t have much to say today. There’s no childhood memory, or epiphany this time around; I just wanted to write something down. I should probably be discussing the biblical ash cloud drifting over British airspace, or how last night’s election debate made me reconsider not voting this time around. No, I saw a Blackbird hopping around in my garden today. I found that no less interesting.