So here we are -2016- the house is much quieter now the masses have returned to their own homes; our January coughs, sneezes and wheezes have settled in for the long haul and the weather remains appalling.
However, there is my new hobby – if only the rain would hold off long enough for them to come out. The spotting of birds from the the warmth of the kitchen. The Right Little Madam has joined me in the pastime each morning during the holiday, dragging her stool across to the window work surface to eat her cocoa pops and survey the feathered fraternity tucking in to the sunflower seeds and suet balls. She also took a shine to my bird book which identifies books by colour. “What’s that one?” she said pointing at a greenish bird.
“What colour are its underparts?” I did have my head in the fridge at the time trying to work out what I was supposed to do with an industrial sized bowl of cold bread sauce.
“Birds don’t wear underpants granny!”
“Underparts – though I do like the idea of birds in underpants.” I emerged frowning having swapped the bread sauce for a carton of milk.
And so apparently did the Right Little Madam because the birds that come to our bird table are now all being identified by the hue of their underpants.
She had real problems with blue tits though – not with the bird itself but with the idea that once upon a time milkmen used to deliver our daily pinta in silver foil capped glass bottles left on the doorstep. She struggled with that concept and struggled even more with the thought that the cheeky little bundles of yellow and blue feathers would then steal the cream from the top of the milk by piercing the foil.
“I simply don’t believe it granny,” she announced peering at me over the top her glasses, “You really must stop making things up.”