Ralph Oswick: In a flap over hungry birds
Mr Robin was OK (could have been Mrs Robin, they are apparently indistinguishable). He/she was practically eating out of my hand, delivering what I am convinced were little trills of thanks. Not so the tits. Angry hoppings which said "You're late! Do you want us to expire? Our little frames can't take this you know."
Two rooks that normally sit atop my elm in aloof silence would greet me of a morning with a conversation that roughly translated as "Caw, here comes that idiot again. Does he seriously think that whole slices of stale bread are easy for us to cope with balanced on an icy branch, with us having no arms and all?" Like, you don't have to take the lot, guys.
I've had trouble with birds before. Once, I was sitting by a lake in Switzerland. Not enjoying the large wedge of rubbery processed cheese I was eating for my lunch, I lobbed it into the water. A duck went for it, but the cheese caught in its throat. The more it tried to swallow, the more the cheese stretched. Soon half was in the duck and half, still attached, remained in the beak. Any sensible duck would have sussed that suffocation was the unavoidable outcome.
Not this one. It kept trying to swallow. Its paroxysms of death drew half of Geneva to the shore. In guttural German Swiss they cried "Spit it out! Spit it out!" which soon changed to "What fool fed fondue to this poor innocent creature?" At which point I withdrew to the back of the crowd.
By now, just the tip of the duck's beak, still jammed with a large blob of stretchy cheese, remained above the water. The creature's wing beats were becoming weaker and it was surely a goner. The good burghers of Geneva were baying for my blood.
Luckily for me, after one monumental final convulsion the cheese went down. And off the duck went, quacking happily as if nothing had happened. As did the good people of Geneva.
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