So dear reader, our avian adventure starts, I have to warn you, sadly, with the death of a poor wee birdie on a quiet Tuesday evening. Our heroine (moi, clearly) had been watching a bit of TV, was nice & relaxed, & then got up to spend the proverbial penny. Bathroom light goes on to a slightly unexpected scene of small brown feathers everywhere, and one poor little bird corpse laying on the bathroom mat where he clearly met his maker (or Lexi).

Lex wanders along the hall at this point looking very proud of himself, after all, feeding your slave (also moi) is a sign you care, right?

Cleanup commences (fecking feathers get everywhere!), bathroom mat in washing machine, bird respectfully laid to rest in wheelie bin. And rightfully there should end our tale.

But no! Lex is on a roll, the fun has barely started my friends, now it’s time for the live birds. Yes birds, plural, do try & keep up.

Wednesday evening, our fearless author is seated at her kitchen table doing incredibly important things on her laptop (twitter) when she’s suddenly interrupted by loud “Come see, come see” miaowing and panicked bird calls from the lounge.

Picture the scene if you will – a TV unit come bookcase, a large area rug, a coffee table, a sofa. Between the TV & the table Lex has deposited a small brown bird he’s just dragged in through the cat flap. It’s very panicked. So, I chase the cat away, sit down beside the bird & gently start stroking it’s back & talking quietly until it calms a little & I can hold it’s wings next to it’s body & pick it up to release it. Uh-oh. Problem.

In it’s over stimulated state this poor wee birdie (poss a juvenile blackbird) has dug it’s claws really deeply into my rug and gripped. Tightly. It is not letting go. Ever. Feck. I begin having visions of people coming to visit in months to come and me saying “Oh yes, all the best people have live birds in their rugs now, didn’t you know?”

I throw a lightweight towel around the bird, kick the cat, and ring a friend for advice because I’m slightly panicked. He very calmly and helpfully suggests scissors. FFS. I’m still unsure whether I was supposed to cut the bird or the rug as I was laughing too much.

So I did what all good heroines do in a crisis and stepped back, and had a coffee and a cig. Then I sat back down beside the bird which seemed much more relaxed and tried gently but very firmly to prise one tiny but hellishly strong claw at a time out of my rug.

Reader finally success!! I managed over about ten minutes to free its whole right claw, at which point it perked up, flapped its wings & started looking around. So you can imagine my relief & delight when as I was prising at its left claw it suddenly relaxed & voila, freedom!

Clearly not wanting to then chase a flying bird around the house I managed to gently grab it, wings next to body, take it outside and pop it on top of the hedge. It’s fate after that is up to Mother Nature, I feel I did my best (especially bearing in mind throughout all of this were regular moments of me hissing elegantly “Lex, NO” as he tried various sneaky approaches from different directions).

Time to relax you’d think? So dear reader did I. Pizza in the oven, pop amazon prime on, sorted. I was halfway through that yummy pizza my friends, when Lex brings in bird number three of the week. I kid you not. I would not, nay, could not make this nonsense up.

He even dropped it in the same spot in the lounge, between the TV & coffee table. Consistent little bastard. Well I’ll confess I cussed some, and I’ll not apologise for that as I feel it was deeply warranted. Bird three was obviously also panicked, unlike myself who was frankly slightly blasé by now, so I got up, gently picked it up with its wings tucked in & took it back outside to freedom. I like to think it looked grateful.

Reader this brings our little tale to Thursday. A quiet day with no surprises, my cleaner comes & we laugh about my bird tales, as she hoovers up the last of the stray feathers, the incidents already a receding memory. But no, it’s a trick. Hah! The birds just want you to think they’ve gone. They want you to relax, get soft, let your guard down….

Then they send the big guns in when you least expect it. It was just getting dark when I walked down the hall to the bedroom, and as I did I heard a rustling kind of noise from my walk-in wardrobe/cupboard. Shit. I stopped, heard it again, definitely high up. I slowly reached in and turned on the light.

There, perched on top of my lampshade was a jackdaw*. Large as life and just as stupid, as you will soon discover. He’d obviously been there at least a short while as he’d kindly crapped on & torn my lampshade and crapped on two jumpers and the carpet. He was not pleased to see me, which I felt was a tad rude. My house pal, but I guess also my cat though, so I get it.

This is the start of about half an hour of attempted Jackdaw wrangling, during which our plucky heroine even spent five minutes outside in the rain trying to give the bird space. Would that stupid bird leave the hallway by the OPEN back door?

Hell no. Back & forth past it. Sitting & staring at it. Flying back into the cupboard. Tapping with it’s beak at the two *closed* doors to the lounge and bathroom!! It was at that point I realised it was terminally stupid, gave up and and threw a towel over its head. It somewhat miraculously immediately ceased movement so I was able to pick it up inside the towel & throw it outside (gently, I promise!).

And there ends my little saga, or so I fervently hope. Remember folks, there’s a lesson here for us all, bird in house? Solution = Towel. (I can attest this also works for bats) You’re welcome 😁

*Am I surprised at Lex wrangling a Jackdaw in through the catflap? Nope, he’s done lots of mice & shrews over the years, plus a dead pigeon, a dead rat and a live bat so I’m now just like, really?! <<eye roll>>