Pure Joy

There's a burst of new growth in the ivy under my window, and an infusion of blue in the sky. The buds are out; the breeze is fresh--I'll live to see another spring!

Another thing I've been seeing lately is seagulls. Loads of seagulls. Extra seagulls. One of 'em almost got in the Rat's Nest this morning. He was poking his head through the blinds when I came out of the shower. It might be an idea to shut the window after putting out birdseed, from now on. I can't have outside birds coming in here, contaminating the budgies with their filthy Dumpster diseases. For all I know, that seagull was in, and I caught him on his way out. Horror!

I ought to write a book about seagulls: The Silly Birder's Guide to Silly Birds--how's that? Maybe I will. I've got enough gull stories, after all. That's the good thing with urban birding: you might not encounter quite the dazzling array of avifauna you would in the country, but you do become intimately familiar with a few pervasive species. Ask me anything about the secret lives of seagulls--gawn, ask me! I've eavesdropped on a thousand squabbles, and ten times as many confabulations. They didn't know I was listening, but I was, and taking notes, to boot. The seagull secret agent, that's me. (One of these days, I might even stop calling them "seagulls.")

Oh, dear. Am I talking through my hat again? I'm just having trouble containing my enthusiasm, is all. You can't imagine my delight, as I watch the trees erupt in leaves, and the sun rise over the skyscrapers. We hadn't had any sun in ages. It was just one grey day after another, and, dear God, the rain! Twenty-seven days of it, we had, and never a part in the clouds. I hardly got any birding in at all, all through December and January. I thought I'd go mad, sitting on my arse day after day, and surrounded by garbage, as I was.

Speaking of garbage, that problem has, at long last, been sorted out. Me and Richard, we dragged it all out yesterday evening. The Rat's Nest is now rubbish-free, and the only nasty smell's from my cooking. From now on, I'm only using wee bags for the dust--bags I can carry on my own. I simply can't have another garbage disaster. There was one last year, when Gail arrived--we couldn't come in here for hours, after that bag exploded. Then, when Mother was here, there were seven or eight bags to go out, and again when Clare came for Christmas. You'd think I'd have caught on to the small-bag thing by then, but you'd think wrong. Us rats learn only by repetition ad nauseam (or, in this case, ad nausea.)

Oh, the days are getting longer--it's all so lovely! Me, I'm tired and hungry, but only because I was out all morning. It's not like last year, when there wasn't any food to eat, or last month, when I had no strength to eat it. This is me havering on aimlessly, in the grip of pure joy.

Sod this, in fact. It's too glorious an evening to waste indoors. I'm off down the courtyard to chase birds.