Being of the old school, I have long been
au fait with that Alfred Hitchcock classic, (based on a story by Daphne du Maurier),
The Birds. When I first saw it, oh, so many years ago, I never, ever imagined that my life would in any be touched by feathered peril. Yet, fortune was to see me sojourn in a house whose old chimney flues served as Airbnb to the local avian population. And more than once, I found one of the feathered ones in my quarters – Tippi Hedren, move over, please. A few years and another apartment later, I faced another feathered peril. The place is a fine example of modernism, no chimney flues or blues here. Instead, the world turned green twice daily, sunrise and sunset, with flocks of parakeets paying court to (and stripping the leaves off) the local trees. By the way, has anyone noticed how much those tropical horrors resemble Alfred Hitchcock’s lovebirds? The parakeets eventually tired of the district and the visits halted. But another peril abounds – pigeons. Yes, the annual nesting season is under way and more than one of these blighters has tried to smash (yes, smash) its way into my apartment. The latest attack was executed by one of the species resting awhile on top of a nearby curtain wall and then launching himself, missile style, against my second-floor window. Really, their cheek has to be witnessed to be believed. Ever since, I return home every day with an apprehension that one of said blighters may, just
may have succeeded in breaking the window and nested comfortably in the living room, the carpet liberally decorated in
guano. Has this actually happened to anyone? Reader, over to you.
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