The Killing House and Sarah’s Adventures

13th July 2013

Amid the usual family business, I should clarify the title of this post lest anyone think catastrophe has struck. Rest assured, the family are fine. The real drama involves birds and our windows.

For reasons best known to the avian brain (or lack thereof), our house has become a magnet for feathered kamikazes. In past homes, I don’t recall this being an issue, though, given the state of my memory, that proves nothing.

In recent weeks, however, we’ve endured the daily thunk of airborne headbutts on windows, sometimes several in one morning. Dealing with the aftermath has become an unpleasant chore, now rivalling the decapitated “gifts” that Lulu, our neighbour’s homicidal cat, deposits around the garden. Some casualties get a discreet burial via the bin, others a solemn river send-off. One, though, went missing in suspicious circumstances.

It began one morning when I heard a blackbird shrieking from the neighbour’s chimney. I assumed a cat was about, so I thought little of it. But hours later, she was still there, crying her heart out. When I wandered over (yes, I do talk to birds, Sue does it too), I noticed a trail of black feathers on the lawn. It struck me that her mate, my long-time nemesis who has spent years pinching my blueberries, might have met a sticky end. Irritating though he was, I felt for her.

She sat on that chimney all day, calling, even into the night. At dawn, she was at it again. I crawled under hedges, poked about behind the blackcurrants, and lifted cabbage leaves like a deranged detective, but found no body. In the end, I gave up and apologised to her by the pool.

The mystery deepened that evening when I discovered a hungry fledgling blackbird by the greenhouse. Of course, the poor thing had gone unfed while its mother kept vigil. I perched it on the apple tree, hoping she’d bring it a worm. Alas, the next day, Sue found it lifeless behind the rockery. I should have taken it in and played worm-delivery service myself. Sad lesson learned.

Meanwhile, our resident pigeons fared no better. They finally managed to lay two eggs, only for the local crows to swoop in and smash them to bits. The pigeons had taken turns so dutifully on that nest. Instead, I found broken shells scattered under the tree and two plump crows cawing merrily in the tree.

Not every bird tale ends in tragedy, though. The other morning, returning from my bike ride, I watched a small bird ricochet off my study window and flop to the ground. Expecting the worst, I was pleasantly surprised to find it merely dazed. I set it on the bird table and kept vigil over coffee, but it sat stubbornly still for hours. After lunch, I tried tempting it with soggy bread, and just as I snapped a photo, off it flew, perfectly fine.

And that, I think, is the note to end on. Because if life insists on throwing “thunks” at your window, it’s rather nice when at least one of them survives.

At the weekend, the British and Irish Lions rugby team didn’t just beat the Wallabies; they gave them a good old-fashioned stuffing in the final test! I watched the match at The Angel with the usual chums, and for once, the experience was smooth sailing. No technical hitches, no spilt pints, and, most impressively, I managed not to choke on my breakfast. A red-letter day in rugby viewing, if ever there was one.

That afternoon, Sue and I trotted off to a housewarming in Desborough. The host was an old pal of mine, Head of Loatlands School in his former life and a die-hard Tigers supporter, naturally, the rugby score was the first order of conversation. As we pulled up outside, we spotted Brigitte driving past, so we promised to nip in on her and Jim afterwards (they live just around the corner). We left Desborough that evening thoroughly stuffed: first by the Lions’ victory, then by the buffet.

The following day was rather less glamorous: my six-month dentist check-up. Nothing says “fun weekend” quite like a filling. Still, spirits were restored later at a family BBQ, where we were treated to a surprise Red Arrows flypast in honour of Armed Forces Day. Nothing like a spot of aerial acrobatics to make you forget the smell of dental anaesthetic.

The weather has been glorious these past couple of weeks, which I can only assume is thanks to the Rothwells jetting off in search of sunnier climes. Typical, leave the country, and England suddenly decides to behave like the Med.

On 3rd July, I played chauffeur, first taking Nan to the summer concert at Farndon Fields School, then picking her up afterwards like a proper cab service (minus the fare, though perhaps I should start charging). Later, I somehow managed to shoehorn the entire Rothwell clan plus three suitcases into my little Fiesta and whisk them up to East Midlands Airport. The sun was blazing, so I wore my sunglasses, Caribbean fashion, sunglasses the whole way. After waving them off at Departures, I returned home and celebrated my newfound freedom with an afternoon of lounging in the pool. In fact, I’ve been in it every day since, and Jamie’s had a few friends over to add to the splashing and cooling-off festivities.

Meanwhile, I’ve embarked on a little project: the phone box. Originally purchased with the grand idea of becoming a poolside shower, its destiny was diverted when we had a proper shower fitted by the back door. It has since served as little more than a glorified cupboard for pool kit. No more! I’ve stripped it out and am repainting it inside and out. To avoid melting in the heat, I’ve been starting at 6 a.m., not exactly my natural hour. So far, progress has been steady, though I’ve managed to collect several bumps to the head, a couple of finger gashes, and I’ve sacrificed a perfectly decent pair of shorts to the cause (let’s keep that quiet from Sue).

Sue and I also enjoyed a night at the theatre to see the play, The Odd Couple. It was excellent. Harborough certainly isn’t short on acting talent, no doubt thanks to the solid education the older generations received.

The following day, Peter and I headed up to Thurcroft to mow lawns and tidy up. Afterwards, we treated ourselves to a stroll around Ulley Reservoir, which was delightful. Peter’s also been lending a hand with Charlotte’s allotment while she’s been away. Together, we completed the chicken run and dug over the rest of the plot. Honestly, it was like trying to till reinforced concrete. Several sweaty sessions later, we finally declared victory, after which we made a strategic retreat to the pub to rehydrate. After all, it would’ve been irresponsible not to.

Last Saturday, Sue and I joined Jim and Brigitte at a new Turkish restaurant in Rothwell for Jim’s surprise birthday party. His daughter Sarah and her husband were there too, which made it a proper family affair. The food was wonderfully authentic, and we were all seriously impressed. In fact, it was so good that we’ve already agreed a return visit is compulsory (purely for quality control, of course).

Sue and I also managed a cinema trip to see Hitchcock. A good film, though if I’m being honest, the highlight may have been the steady stream of sweets Sue kept passing along. Suspense on screen, sugar rush in real life, the problem was to choose which was better.

The following day, Jamie and I headed off to Silverstone. His birthday present from the family was a day of rallying, and the weather turned it into a proper dust bowl. Ten drivers took to the course, all in Subaru cars, while the air filled with glorious orange clouds. Jamie threw himself into it with gusto, while I stuck to photographing, filming, and marvelling from the sidelines. He said afterwards that most of the other drivers looked like they were wrestling mid-life crises; thankfully, I had the sense to remain silent and not prove his point!

Midweek, I went for a walk with John Lee around Kings Cliffe on a blisteringly hot day, and it turned into quite the outing, largely thanks to a fully laden cherry tree we discovered along a woodland path. It was groaning under the weight of enormous, black, juicy cherries. Naturally, I felt it my civic duty to lighten the load. About 5lb later, I reluctantly decided to move on, though not before wondering whether I’d have to be rolled the rest of the way. Astonishingly, I still managed to demolish a steak and ale pie, chips, and peas at the pub afterwards. Proof, if ever it were needed, that there’s always a separate stomach for pudding… or cherries.

On our route, we passed Rowan Atkinson’s house. No sign of him, though, presumably he was out somewhere in his McLaren, possibly planting beans, crashing into things, or otherwise living up to expectations.

We’ve taken Nan out for lunch several times recently, and she’s also been enjoying regular excursions with the other “inmates” at Huntingdon Gardens. With the Ashes in full swing, she’s positively in seventh heaven, cricket on the telly, endless cups of tea, and a steady supply of scones. Frankly, I’m not sure life gets much better than that.

Meanwhile, Sarah continues her globe-trotting escapades and seems to be having the time of her life. We keep up with her through Facebook, Skype, and the odd phone call, which always feels like a treat. It’s lovely to see her adventures unfolding, even if we’re only watching from the cheap seats back home!

Sarah’s Holiday Snaps:

Vienna