Come back blackbirds, you are definitely forgiven by me
A pair of blackbirds have had the audacity to build a nest in the top of my euonymus bush, only a few feet away from my kitchen window.
There the arrogant male stands, pieces of twig and hairs from the white dog down the road protruding cheekily from his beak, all the while doing a balancing act on my fence as I struggle to make myself invisible in my own kitchen so as not to disturb him.
Could be he thinks I have the easier life, washing the new season broccoli and breaking off asparagus stalks while he is obliged to collect building materials all day long.
My garden gate is firmly latched, even though it is a good dry as we say in Suffolk. The female is fond of using it as a perch to rest from her labours or to converse with her partner.
Like Anne Frank’s family hiding in an attic in Amsterdam, who could only relax when the office workers below had gone home, I can only bring in the washing or fetch necessary tools from the garden shed when those who rule the roost have called it a day.
One fine morning, thinking of something else, I inadvertently shook a yellow duster out of the kitchen door. A sharp scolding reprimanded me of my misdemeanour.
Not long afterwards, greatly to my surprise, another female appeared and landed on the opposite side of the fence from the male. There was an inordinate shrilling and flapping of wings. Then all three flew away, in a flurry of God knows what. Together.
That was a month ago.
So now I can sit at my own garden table again, alone with my thoughts and my flights of imagination.
Blackbirds can be bigamists (or even worse) and can build several nests and have several broods in one season. Or could it possibly be that somewhere there exists a happy menage a trois and a silky nest, maybe in the honeysuckle hedge or in the jasmine trellis next to the patio, where the white dog has her long tresses brushed out every morning?
Like the departure of a troublesome son or daughter, the first relief from aggravation very soon gives way to something else.
Could be empty nest syndrome?
Come back my blackbirds, all is forgiven. JUDITH SHARMAN Woodbridge Suffolk