Dear Mrs Blackbird

I am remarkably patient with you. I am not whinging when you wake me at daybreak as you fly in and out of the eaves under my roof, and then flap around in the loft space above the bedroom where every morning I lay and listen. I know you are being a Very Good Mother, feeding your babies. I do not grumble, even when I think of the blobs and globules of bird shit that will no doubt be spattering my water tank (not to mention my Christmas tree), or hear the flapping and rustling that you make. I marvel, you sound like a whole flock of seagulls, how do you manage that? Do you have tap shoes I wonder? Anyway. I do not call someone to block up your entrance to my house. I know that to do so, would ensure certain death for your little lovelies, being the featherless little gannets that they are at this time in their lives. I sympathise. I have myself mothered three graceless, ungrateful, feeding/pooing,pooing/feeding machines for what feels like years. I do feel your pain.

However Mrs. Blackbird, I must point out that my patience has a limit. When I go outside to stand on my patio for a rare 5 minutes peace with a mug of tea, I do not expect to be shrieked at as though I am an expenses heavy MP strolling round Lidls in the Wirral, waving my rolex and flashing my Amex. I do expect to be able to hang my washing out without you perching on the clothes prop giving me the evils and hopping up and down, bellowing your miserable beak off in an impersonation of a mid rage Rumpelstiltskin.

My life, Mrs. Blackbird, is not peaceful often.

Do me a favour and shut the fuck up for five minutes.

Thanks,

Pesk.
xxx