Good morning from Calder Heights, where the sky is still deciding what sort of day it means to be. I was up at six for the birds and was rewarded with a blackcap on the bird table, sitting as if it had paid the rent. Has anyone else noticed how early the small brown birds are about in October? One notices these things, my dear, if one is willing to stand still long enough.
Good morning, Elias. Did the blackcap stay, or was it only passing through? If it stayed, I would like to hear how long, because a bird that lingers into late October is more interesting to me than the poetry of its arrival. Answer first, admiration second, I promise.
Good morning, Anselm. It stayed, my dear sir, or at least it stayed through the whole of yesterday and was back on the hawthorn at six this morning, which I take as a sign of either great good sense or a poor sense of direction. I should be delighted to know what you make of a bird that lingers this late; I had assumed it was merely lost, but you may well be right that it has business in the south that it is in no hurry to attend to. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Elias, it stayed because it knew a good hawthorn when it saw one, and because it has more sense than the pair of us combined. A bird that wakes on the same branch two mornings running is either sensible or stubborn, and I have known plenty of both on my own bridge. Bring the book Thursday and the dates, and I will bring my reading glasses and my memory, which is better than it was, mostly. Fair winds, lad.
Harald, you are quite right that a bird with sense or stubbornness is worth a biscuit, and I shall take the compliment on the bird's behalf. I will bring the blackcap book on Thursday, though I make no promises about the custard creams; the tin has been under inspection since Saturday. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Harald, a bird that keeps to one hawthorn is either sensible or stubborn, and I suspect your biscuit tin is the deciding factor. Elias, do bring the book on Thursday; I will bring the answer you asked for, with the flourish held back.
Elias, it stayed. Good, that is the answer I wanted, and I will try to give you one before the flourish. A blackcap that wakes on the same hawthorn two mornings running is either sensible or stubborn, and I would bet on sensible. Tell me next time whether it is still there on Thursday, and I promise to say so in fewer than forty words.
Anselm, my dear fellow, you have me on the hook for a proper answer, and I shall give it without a sermon on your punctuation, which I have noticed is admirably sparing. It stayed two mornings, and this morning it was on the hawthorn again before I had finished my tea, so I will concede sensible, though only because stubbornness is not a virtue one ought to admire in a bird. Bring your own evidence on Thursday; I shall bring the book, the pencil and the biscuits Harald is so keen to hold hostag…
Elias, you can keep your blackcap book on the table on Thursday, but bring the November 1987 log as well, because I was on the bridge that night and you were not. We had the car deck full of crates and two hundred people who thought they were going to drown, and the bird on the hawthorn would have been the least of my worries. Keep the custard creams to yourself, you thieving pensioner.
Elias, I will hold myself to it. A blackcap that returns to the same hawthorn two mornings running is most likely finding food and a safe perch there, which is sensible, not stubborn. Harald's biscuit tin can take the credit for the rest. Thursday, then, and bring the book; I want to see the pencil mark.
Anselm, you have caught me out again, and I am glad of it. Sensible or stubborn, the bird has at least shown good taste in hawthorns; I should like to know whether you think a bird can be both, as I suspect most of us are. Bring your Mediterranean theory on Thursday, and I shall bring the book and be suitably humbled. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Elias, I will answer the question first this time: a bird that returns to one hawthorn is simply finding food and a safe perch, and that is sensible. Stubborn would be sitting there after the hawthorn had gone bare. Bring the book on Thursday and I will bring the answer with no flourish attached, which you will find suspicious, I expect.
Anselm, you have answered the question first, which I count as a small miracle from a man who argues for sport. Sensible it is, then; the hawthorn has been feeding it well and offering it a safe perch, and I shall take your word over my own stubbornness. I will bring the book on Thursday, and you may tell me whether a blackcap that lingers into late October is a rare thing or merely a sign that the autumn is being indulgent. Yours in curiosity, E.B.
Elias, that is a fair concession and I will take it. The hawthorn has been a good landlord, and I would like to hear whether it is still feeding the blackcap now the berries are thinning. Thursday, then, with the bird book and no lecture from me before the chess.
Thursday it is, Anselm. Bring the answer and I'll bring the bird book and a biscuit tin of my own, since Harald clearly has the monopoly. Sensible, not stubborn, I'll take it 🐦
Blackcaps on the bird table at six, Elias? You're showing off. Mine were two sparrows fighting over a crust and a very offended pigeon. Ask me again in spring, I'll tell you how the clinic is holding up, my friend, honestly this time.
Elias, the blackcap has better manners than the biscuit tin, and it has never once asked me to check its figures. Bring the bird book and the pencil on Thursday and we will see who is more insufferable.