There is a knock at the door!!!

I look up in annoyance. The Baby has been a little difficult, I am trying to get him to sleep, and I have not yet put my trousers on. Nevertheless, a knock is a knock. It could be somebody interesting, perhaps with some good news or some free money. I trot through the kitchen to find out.

“Is this the place with the rare Gribledy-Grob?” demands the man.

I sigh deeply. For over a week, a rare Gribledy-Grob bird has been visiting the tree in the front garden, to eat our berries and to preen. It has attracted all sorts of birdwatching types, most of whom have been extremely friendly and good-natured. This one immediately comes across as a little eccentric.

If there is one thing that puts me on edge, it is eccentric people. I reflect that it is a good job that I have removed the notice pretending that I had put the Gribledy-Grob in a sandwich, as I stand at the door in my pants.

“I believe that it has flown on somewhere else,” I reply. It is true. There has been no sign of it since the previous day.

This seems to upset the man a great deal. “Are you certain?” he demands. “It’s not here?” He bends to one side, straining to look past me into the kitchen, as if I would have secreted the Gribledy-Grob in there.

“I am very certain,” I reply.

“This is [%my address and house number]?” he queries. “This is the address that I’ve got on my pager. [%my address and house number].”

I stare at the pager that he waves before me, in some annoyance. “Yes. But the bird has flown away.”

The conversation peters out at this point, and he takes his leave.

It is a beautiful spring morning.

The Baby has experienced a reasonably good night; I am refreshed and cheerful. I throw the curtains wide, like the bloke in the song.

376483 enormous cameras swing up to fix me in their gaze. I dethrow the curtains hastily.

Stomping downstairs, I find the LTLP making tea. “There are 376483 people outside pointing cameras at me,” I complain. “It must be something to do with the Gribledy-Grob.”

We have a rare Gribledy-Grob bird or suchlike nesting in our tree, which has caused comment amongst the birdwatcher fraternity. So far, I have found them pleasant people if a little eccentric. Len the Fish has explained to me that the bird is there because it likes my berries.

I peek through the kitchen blinds. Most of the berries have been eaten. This is annoying. They have been growing there for years, and I might have needed them some day, e.g. to poison people. I drink my tea, morosely.

The day progresses. The bird flits off after a while, doubtless to eat somebody else’s berries; the immense throng thins out accordingly. I chat to the occasional visitor. Again, they are pleasant and friendly, although they are disappointed to have missed the Gribbledy-Grob. Later on, I tape a sign outside to help them out.

A man is behaving oddly in the street!!!

I stare out from the kitchen window. He is in his forties, I’d guess; scruffy in an old jumper, with the frame of one who does not habitually make a beeline for the salad aisle. I watch as he lopes back and forth, ducking and straining his head, occasionally lifting a camera on which is fitted an enormous, trumpet-like lens.

I think no more of it. If portly men want to make an exhibition of themselves in the street then it is not for the state to intervene. My guess is that it is somebody from a newspaper, as H.M. The Queen is visiting the area at present. Life goes on.

The following day, I visit the market with the LTLP. In order to return via the Village Shop, we need to drive directly past the Cottage. This we do, to find two more men lurking outside our house, furtively brandishing ginormous cameras. Their car is parked across the drive.

The LTLP performs a handbrake turn and pulls the car to a halt pointedly.

“I am very sorry to block your way,” explains Man #1, reasonably. “Did you know that you have a rare bird in your garden?”

We have a rare bird in our garden!!! The chap is considerate and anxious to explain. It turns out that due to weather conditions, the type of plants we have etc. etc., there is some sort of rare Gribbledy-Grob or whatever perched in the tree. I look up at the tree. There is indeed a bird up there, which looks like a sparrow but with different bits. I can’t help but feel honoured that it has chosen our garden to sit and do nothing in.

We have a short conversation about the habits of the Gribbledy-Grob. It is terribly interesting. It does not live in Britain, but occasionally it comes to Britain and sits in a tree. I look at it in wonder, before bidding the friendly man a good-day. This little episode may have awakened a strong interest in ornithology in me; I resolve to keep an eye on the feathery little fellow as the days go by.