3-fucking-30 they started this morning.
"Oi, Al!" (or should that be owl?) "you coming out for a bite?" one sparrow (I've been assured by Bertie they're sparrows) yells from the gutter by my open bedroom window.
"Be there now Burt!" says another, also on the gutter but this time the other side of my window. "I'll just get the wife and kids up."
"But Dad, we don't want to go and eat this early."
"Don't be ungrateful. The nice human put the food out for us, we should take him up on his offer."
Now that was bearable, just. Now it's crows. Fahsands of 'em. Admittedly, the sparrows are the equivalent of the Germans on holiday. Up early, fed and watered, and quiet by about 5. The crows are the equivalent of a loud mob of English blokes on a stag weekend. They start about 7, and are still going as I type this. They're hogging the table, pushing off any
"'Ere, Ethel, get a load of this quaint English eatery. It says it's all you can eat. I shall see how much I can eat."
Cue me, back out with fat balls (not mine, the ones you buy in pet shops) and bags of bird seed, restocking, following the fat bastard Magpie who's just eaten his fill. So much so in fact he can barely take off.
Just in time for the