A songbird

Even though I use the possessive adjective, I do not own my back garden.

Oh no. 

He who thinks has claim to its fee simple absolute is a seemingly cute little bird with a red breast, but actually is a feisty, imperious and somewhat aggressive member of our biosphere.

I admire his style, especially when he puffs up his manly chest, like a Turkish weightlifter on anabolic steroids. 

He’s my alter ego, perhaps.

Little does he know about mortgages, never mind falling property prices.   

Even less does he care about the substantial sum I spent on “making over” his territory just to convert the understated into a salubrious “outdoor room.” 

I must admit to having carried out no research whatsoever to find out if the owner’s satisfaction or quality of life has been improved because of my efforts.

I begrudge my flying visitor nothing. He is lord of the lodge and, I suspect, scares away undesirable elements from lowering the tone of our allegedly swanky neighbourhood. 

I do wish, however, that he’d keep a closer eye on my least favourite visitor, the magpie -  ravenous scavengers, big, squawky, and ugly. 

These dark monsters are not at all like the cuddly garden birds that feature on a glossy newspaper poster that hangs proudly in my kitchen.

It portrays finches, tits, chiffchaffs, kingfishers, tree creepers, thrushes and, of course, my friend and self-appointed guardian.

According to the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, Erithacus Rubecula (the robin) is the UK’s most popular bird. 

Apparently, it sings nearly all year round and at night performs next to streetlights.

Maybe there is a bit of the robin in me. 

I sang melodiously in the moonlit streets of Cardiff in 2009.  A refrain about low-lying fields near a town in County Galway. 
It was after seeing Ireland's rugby team win the 6 Nations grand slam. The vocalist marking the first time the feat had been achieved since the year before he, or I, was born.

Next day I flew home.

©Michael McSorley 2014