After months of relentless rain and wind, today London felt suddenly and inexorably whalloped over the head by spring. Complete with Disney-style stars and birds orbiting its head.
Our garden has gone ballistic with spring bulbs. Normally for every ten bulbs I plant in the autumn, the squirrels extract a tithe of about nine. Perhaps they were distracted this year trying to break into Richard’s ever-more-complicated bird feeder defense system, but for whatever reason, we’ve got dozens of blooms brightening the muddy-green lawn, and many more shoots pushing through the rain-softened earth awaiting their turn.
As we walked Joshua in the park this morning, we heard an unusual birdcall: definitely tit-like, but not the Peter-peter or Knee-deep, knee-deep of a great tit nor the more complicated CHEE-chee-chee bee-dee-dee-dee-dee of the blue tit. It was more like TEA-for me, TEA-for-me, TEA-for-me: plaintive, insistent, seeking.
The culprit was a blue tit, high up in an ash tree giving it his all, with the message, I imagine, roughly translating as, Fancy a shag? Fancy a shag? Fancy a shag?
I think it’s wonderful that after so many years, a blue tit can still surprise me.