Bird in the Hand

This is the kind of thing that happens to me. A little too often for my liking.

Anyway. One of my neighbours is away somewhere disgustingly hot, and so I’ve volunteered to water their plants while they’re off. Not that it’s been too much of a problem given some of the end-of-the-world weather we had last week, but I’ve popped by a couple of times to pick up the post and check on the plants in pots.

This morning, I was filling up the watering can when I spotted something grey at the back of the lawn. Now, it’s not a massive garden, and being blessed as they are by a toddler and a primary school-age son, there’s a lot of things on the lawn. But this thing was something I didn’t remember seeing before. It was sort of… fluffy. Slowly, my eye fell back along the edge of the garden–where I picked up the end of the trail of feathers.

Oh, bollocks.

The first thing I think is that I’m going to have to clear it up. Burying it isn’t an option (we have a strict hierarchy in our house, what with the cat: mice go in the bin, birds get buried and squirrels–and yes, we’ve had a few of those over the years–get ignored for as long as is humanly possible in the hope a fox might intervene) so it’s going to have to go in the bin. I stand in an unfamiliar kitchen, wondering where the hell my neighbour keeps her bin bags.

Fifteen minutes & a lot of swearing later, I’ve worked out how to open the child-proof catches on the cupboards. This is progress. The cupboards contain saucepans. This is not progress. Another fight with the catches (only five minutes this time: I’m learning) and I’ve got the drawer open. It contains only spoons. Millions of the things–including types of spoon I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

Right. Saucepans, spoons. Perhaps I should turn the pigeon into a soup?

No. Best not. Moving on.

Twenty minutes later, I find the binbags. Good. Now all I have to do is get the bird into one. It should be easy: I could just turn the bag inside out and sort of scoop it in. No problem.

I approach the bird carcass. It’s, umm, ripe. In fact, it’s sort of bubbly round the edges and there’s a worm hanging out of its eye. If Tim Burton kept carrier pigeons, they would look like this. And yes, it’s certainly carrying something. I don’t want to get within twenty feet of it, let alone touch it with my hands!

Aha! Garden fork. Of course. I can just skewer… no. That was a mistake. Bird has now sort of… imploded. Christ. There’s now bird over a five foot radius. The only way I’m ever going to get this cleared up is…. wait a minute! The drawer!

Salvation.

As long as they don’t count the spoons any time soon…..

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2 comments

  1. Hello Lou Morgan. My name is Lou Morgan. 🙂 I was just busy scouring the internet for a story I wrote a million years ago (well, possibly 10) but it seems all trace of it has been eliminated from the http://www... must have been bad! Anyway, in my search I stumbled across you, my namesake. 🙂 I like your blogs and your writing style, you remind me a bit of… errr… me! My only regret is reading this one whilst I was munching on my marmite toast… ! I had to pick up a mangled lawn bird only last week too! Hey… maybe we are living parallel lives!! :-S Anyway, nice to find you Lou Morgan… best regards, Lou Morgan.

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