Bye-bye, Blackbird

The blackbird in the garage (we'd taken to calling her Mrs B) has deserted her nest. I think it was robbed. There's a broken egg of about the right size smeared across the garage door. Who could have done it? A magpie possibly - and we have plenty of those; alternatively a rat.

PS. I've taken a look- there are two babies in the nest- half-grown- still alive but barely moving. Oh. 

So...

...The likelihood is that Mrs B has herself been predated- or knocked down on the road. There's nothing we can do for the chicks; they're too far gone.

Living out in the country soon disabuses you of the lolcat view of nature.  

Best Years Of Your Life: Not

My old school sends me a glossy magazine at intervals. I'm sure they'd like me to send them money by return, but I don't.

We drove past it a few weeks back. Ailz asked if I wanted to call in. I said, "No."

Lots of people can't resist though. There's proof in the glossy mag: pages and pages of full colour pictures of prosperous-looking grey haired blokes hob-nobbing.  One of them is Sir Tim Rice. He can't stay away. Every time the mag arrives he's all over it. In this issue he's reported to have given a speech in which he talks about the longevity of friendships made at school. I'm not friends with anyone I knew at school. Not a soul.

I was reading an article t'other day in which this trick cyclist was arguing that people who've been at boarding school are the worst people to entrust with power. No emotional intelligence, see.

 Wicked places. Socially divisive too. I'd close them all down.

However...

I've just seen Mrs B perched on her nest with a worm in her beak.  Which sort of invalidates all the observations I made this morning.