I hate birds

I really, really, really hate birds. For a start, they poo all over my car. Secondly, they peck at our raspberries. Thirdly, they wake up even earlier than my bloody children and make even more noise. But mainly, it's because they just give me the heebie jeebies.

There's something about their fluttery little wings, the way their eyes and heads move too fast and the fact that they're just plain dumb. As I type this, I have a bird of unknown variety in my kitchen. My fault - I left the door and window open as it's a particularly hot day. It is sitting there tweeting and pecking at a piece of bread that the boys left out.

Any normal person would stealthily go up behind it and throw a towel over it and take it outside. But that would involve me a) looking at it b) attempting not to startle it (and let's be clear here - I don't care if it is startled, I just don't want the demented thing flying around and bashing into windows) and c) I'd have to feel it's horrible little bony body. Eugh.

So instead of being able to go downstairs and enjoy some dinner or watch TV, I am sitting upstairs in my small office typing this, hoping that the silly creature will finally realise where the door is. My one brave expedition into the kitchen scared the bejesus out of it and me and I am not sure who shat themselves more (another pleasant task I'll be dealing with later no doubt).

This is the second time I've been held hostage in my house by a sodding bird. Earlier this year we had a hawk catch a blackbird outside our front door. It proceeded to strangle the thing - and then revive it - and strangle it - and revive it (not quite mouth to mouth you understand, but a gentle easing of the claw off its neck). The bird being strangled made the most blood curdling shriek that went on for hours. I was literally green by the end of it. I even had to call dear husband home to resolve the situation, which of course he didn't laugh about. Much. Obviously the charming creatures decided to take flight (both of them) the minute he walked through the door. So all I could show for my afternoon of hell was a patch of poo on the front step. It didn't exactly win me brownie points.

I fear this latest bird incident might be just as long lasting. I've already sent a text to husband insisting that he cut his meeting short because we have a bird situation. But somehow I don't think he's going to be rushing back. Why on earth did we decide to live in the country when I am quite patently not cut out for it?