There were two tūī in the plum tree getting deliriously drunk on nectar. Do tūī, I wondered, idly, get hangovers? The fantails were following me, as they always do, dancing and darting and chattering incessantly, just a finger’s length away, as I hobbled my way around the garden on my bung knee.
A speckled thrush was having a happy bath in the old Chinese blue-and-white bowl that serves as a water cooler for cats, hedgehogs and an assortment of birds. A lot of chat goes on at the water cooler. Because we don’t happen to speak cat, hedgehog or bird, we don’t know what they chat about. But we can assume that it is mostly, as it is when office workers congregate at the water cooler, complaints about the bosses. In this case, the bosses are the proprietors of Lush Places, so that would be us, and the complaints would be that we were late, again, with their morning tea.
The black-ringed doves were cooing and giggling and pooing on the terrace. The evil chickens were standing at the kitchen door, knocking angrily on the glass with their beaks. They often do. They glare in at us beadily, menacingly. They are attempting, and succeeding, to hypnotise us into giving them sunflower seeds.
I like to watch the birds. They are endlessly entertaining. Except for the chickens, which are endlessly infuriating.
I don’t even qualify as an amateur birder. I have been reading a jolly good rollicking yarn about two proper birders. New Zealand’s Biggest Year by Harry Boorman with his mum, Felicity Boorman, is the story of a competition between two mates ‒ and rivals ‒ to break the record for the most birds spotted in a year. It is a tale of an endearing obsession. Of triumphs and disappointments, of derring-do, mad dashes and a lot of standing around waiting for an elusive avian to appear, or, as often as not, to not appear.
You get to have a bird’s-eye view into the gently competitive world of the bird spotter from the comfort of your couch. It is a very nice book and would make a very nice birthday present for anyone who likes looking at birds.
What, asked my girly friends, Pru and Charlotte, would I like for my 60th birthday? That was easy: Bags of donkey poo for the garden.
Pru is always happy to divest herself of the piles of poo her ever-growing collection of rescue donkeys produce. I am always happy to receive it. Dahlias love donkey poo. So do spuds. We love dahlias and spuds. So donkey poo equates to happiness all round. Who would not hope for happiness for their 60th birthday?
I also wanted my pet ewe, Elizabeth Jane, to present me with a pair of ewe lambs. She half-delivered. We now have one perfect ewe lamb, born on September 8, the day of the first anniversary of the Queen’s death. I have named Elizabeth Jane’s lamb Lilibet, the Queen’s childhood nickname.
It is just a shame that those snivelling Sussexes, Meghan and Harry, appropriated the name for their entitled second child. But the lamb and her mama, who is also known as Mama No Ears, will never know.
What I would really like for my birthday is for my stupid knee to miraculously come right. If it keeps giving me gyp, I’ll get Greg to cut off my leg above the knee with his chainsaw. I’ll get a wooden leg and become a pirate.
I rather fancy the idea of being a pirate. I could sing smutty sea shanties and drink rum all day long and get about with a parrot perched on my shoulder.
