Flying smoke alarm invasion

Herself thinks that putting on the feathers is just too much. I don't think so. Although the giant "worm" made from a discarded vacuum cleaner-hose and painted reddish might be taking things a little far.

But such is the level to which I have been reduced, wearing a dark-coloured boa and flapping about in snorkeling flippers in my back yard, competing in avian psychology with a savage blackbird which has been terrorising the neighbourhood for the past two weeks.

It started innocently enough with Herself and myself "Oooh"-ing and "Aaah"-ing at the lovely trills and warbles from last year's incumbent in the blackbird territory which appears to extend from the bottom of our road -- three or four back gardens in length -- to the top -- maybe another ten or twelve gardens' worth in the other direction. Last year's cock of the walk was a handsome chappy that battled it out in song with his near neighbours.

This year a new pretender has muscled in. And it isn't only other blackbirds which are considered enemies and intruders.

I thought the cats would naturally be a cause of the incessant "Shreep! Shreep! Shreep!" bird alarm calls, but then I realised the cats were inside the house and the only one around was me, minding my own business in a white, plastic garden chair in the rare patch of sunlight.

"Shreep! Shreep! Shreep! Shreep! Shreep!" the bugger says. And not only that: he flies up to the roof of the house in his Shreeping, then down to the wall, then onto the shed roof. On the shed, he ruffs up his tail feathers and makes a mock charge at me, holding his wings up suddenly to make a threatening flurry.

"That only works on other blackbirds, stupid," I said to him. But he kept right on Shreeping. It was getting on my nerves, setting my broken teeth on the last of their edges.

At one point, our tabby cat arrived outside to survey the scene. She watched him go from shed to house to wall to shed to house to wall again. The evil little puss waited until he had gone out of sight then nonchalantly placed herself in ambush on a piece of junk lying up against the wall.

"Swish!" went her claws as he landed briefly on the uppermost concrete block. He dodged easily. But no. He didn't fly away in fear, as might be expected of a reasonable blackbird. He took up position on top of the shed roof and added a "Chuck! Chuck!" to the "Shreep! Shreep! Shreep!" for a while.

The cats are bemused. His strategy is working, because they have generally made it known that they are less comfortable in the back garden during the day than before. Myself, I tend to stay indoors and close the double-glazed windows so I can't hear him. When he doesn't have me to bully, he Shreeps at wood pigeons and women hanging washing.

I have heard him from inside our kitchen and walked boldly outside clapping my hands loudly. This has some effect -- maybe because it has an auditory component that the little fecker understands -- because he ducks over the perimeter into another garden out of reach and "Shreeps!" at me from a safe distance. But it's only a temporary respite. I need to show him who the boss is.

So in the end I find myself in the black boa and the flippers, clutching a giant fake worm. If he wants to be top of the pecking order around here he's in for a disappointment. I can strut better than him, and catch bigger worms, and flap bigger wings. Just watch me, little birdy!

Herself has gone to watch the television news.

She says she's not answering the door to any more policemen.

Diurse Alarums

It was the most perfect Spring day last week and I’d even managed to get off work relatively early to enjoy the sunshine. I had a vague notion of sitting in the back garden with cats for company and the trills of the resident blackbird washing away a day’s worth of work bullshit.

Stepping off the bus, I walked ten yards into the housing estate to hear a wailing:

“Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no…”

Even the fucking burglar alarms are afraid in this estate.

I think it’s either loneliness from being left companionless all day, or else the designers of the damned things are subliminally building into them their own paranoia about people rifling through their CD collections.

What kind of burglar alarm goes “Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no” for fuck’s sake?

I heard it again today, when home on the mythical flexi-day (ironically, introduced to give the worker a rest from working; instead I mow grass and stick tiles onto walls for hours and hours) and I stepped outside the back door for a moment to fetch something. I can image one of those Disney-animated teapots shrieking in terror, its four-fingered hands held over its mouth in horror: “Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!”

The wind was gusting, so the alarm obviously thought there was a break-in. The trouble is that the person who owns the alarm suffers from a number of deficits in relation to their trusty alarm system. 1. The alarm goes off with a gust of wind. 2. It would be a laughable alarm if it wasn’t for… 3. It doesn’t switch off until the owner comes home from work at whatever time in the evening.

We’ve had troubles with our own alarm system recently, but at worst the outdoor siren switches off after a relatively short period, leaving the indoor siren giving it socks. We also went to the trouble of having the alarms people come out and fix the problems as soon as could be managed. But this resident either hasn’t figured out why his neighbours aren’t talking to him, or (like me), finds nothing unusual in the fact the neighbours don’t talk to him.

Do you phone the Gardai whenever you hear a burglar alarm? Me neither.

If he got a recording of a blackbird and played this through the alarm box I could listen to it all day without complaint. I’d even enjoy the confusion of the local bird trying to find his new enemy.

If the wind comes around much this Summer, it’s going to be a long one.