There’s a bird in the greenhouse. Just sat. A feathery bundle of brown. I think it might be dead. Until it spins, propelled by one good wing, to the back under the potting table. I’m the hero with a snow shovel that’s going to set it free from its transparent prison.
I scoop, it scuttles. I tentatively slide under and cautiously lift it over the threshold. Instinctively knowing what I won’t admit, it just re-bundles outside on the cold paving stones, next to the bins.
I dream about taking it into the garage, making it a bed and a tiny split for its wing. I feed her. We bond. A few weeks later she flies my nest, but of course visits every summer for years to come, becoming quite the family story. And we’re all sad when one year Jemima doesn’t return.
But instead I try and ‘shoo’ it. All it can manage is a lopsided scuffy flounder under the ivy that pours over the small, five brick high, wall.
I haven’t the guts to bludgeon it and put it out of my misery. I think about Googling how long a blackbird can last without food or water, but daren’t because I don’t want to know.
I just bravely wait until after dark, two days later, to put the bins out. Without looking under the ivy.
Tom is an ex-radio advertising copywriter and one of the hosts of The Failing Writers Podcast - a podcast for anyone who's thought about writing a book... and then gone and put the kettle on instead. But sometimes, he actually manages to dig deep, put the kettle on AND write.
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