Dead bird

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to Ginger whom I mentioned in an earlier post. I called him a wimp. To prove me wrong, he battled bravely with a blackbird today, dragged it inside and under my youngest daughter’s bed and proceeded to disembowel it while we all screamed hysterically (I actually locked myself in the bathroom).

This has happened before, but only with sparrows. The last time, I courageously scooped up the dead sparrow with a dustpan and put it outside in the bin. But a blackbird is much bigger than a sparrow and I just couldn’t face it. So I knocked on my neighbour’s door because he looked a brave sort of chap, being young and strong and over six feet tall. Oooh, no, I couldn’t possibly, he exclaimed, recoiling in horror…je suis vraiment désolé.

It was my fearless daughter, Rachel, who saved the day. She’s already rescued me from a monster moth the size of a small charter aeroplane (although I had to pay her ten euros) and she removed the blackbird for free, muttering that we were all a load of lily-livered chochottes.

She’s perfectly right, of course. We are.