I’m trying to prepare a second sepia blog. I’ve selected photographs
of my family in the 1920s and I’ve scanned them onto the computer but every
time I try to think about the words...
Chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee...
Daddy Chaffinch is at it again. He’s been chwee... chwee... chwee-ing
all day, every day for almost a week now and it’s driving me crazy. I think it
must be his way of telling his babies that he’s just popped out for some nice
juicy insects and he’ll be back soon.
‘Aaah, sweet,’ I hear you say.
No! It’s not sweet. It’s aural torture. Please Chaffinch
babies, grow up and fly away... preferably this afternoon.
This is the second brood that Mummy and Daddy Chaffinch have
brought into the world this year. Their nursery is hidden in the depths of our
wisteria. The wisteria is up against our bedroom wall and yes, chaffinches get
up early... very early indeed!
I was excited when The Chaffinch Family chose our garden for
their nursery. I was feeling virtuous that our home-made compost (that writhing
mass of brown which Mr A keeps spreading furiously across the garden) is
providing them with lots of fresh food. I’m also grateful that Mabel and
Charlie were never educated in the ways of hunting cats.
So this should be a positive experience and it would have
been if only Daddy Chaffinch hadn’t turned into such a repetitively rowdy
father. That bird is pushing us all to the limit. Even Mabel and Charlie
have been doing a few of those silent I’m-coming-to-get-you meows today and if
this goes on any longer I’ll be making I’m-coming-to-get-you noises too...
... It’s ok. I feel better now I’ve got that off my chest. I’m
going to go back to writing my sepia blog now but don’t bother trying to talk
to me because I’m wearing ear plugs.
Chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee... chwee...
