I was woken at four o'clock this morning by somthing chirrupping and squeaking about six feet above my head. At first I thought it was another mouse in the roof, though I'd never heard them squeak before. Then, after my just-woken befuddlement passed (or at least faded a bit), I realised that it was a Robin doing its dawn chorus thing.
I've lived out in the sticks (near as dammit anyway) for the last five years, and the funny thing is that I've never noticed the dawn chorus before. It's never really been a feature of us living here.
When I've been in other parts of the British countryside, on holiday perhaps or even, on one occasion, just driving through it on the way to catch a ferry to France, I've heard the birds performing their rendition of Oh What a Beautiful Morning and found it rather charming. The Lancaster version, by contrast, seems more like a rock number. I'm sure that the Robin on the roof was wearing a leather jacket and Pete-Townshending his way through some power chords in between chirps.
The backing group left something to be desired. The Jackdaws that use our garden as a mixture of feeding area, playground and speed-dating agency were putting up a racket in one of the tall conifers that lines the path down to our house, though all they seemed to have to say was "Raark," and that repeatedly. The Blackbirds, who you'd normally be able to rely on to bring at least some melody to the proceedings, were just chasing each other round rather noisily in an apple tree, and not singing at all. Even a woodpigeon would have made things sound a little less riotous.
Nevertheless, awake as I was I went and stood outside for a while, rather Arthur Dentish in my dressing gown, soaking up the early morning air and enjoying the feel of a cool breeze which, one has to suspect, won't last once the sun gets up and going properly in an hour or two. Standing outside in the bug-infested twilight has, however, left me with the disturbing feeling that little wick things are crawling on my skin. I haven't spotted any so far but I'll go and have a shower, just to be on the safe (and somewhat less clammy) side.
In other news, the Doctor's new companion has been named. It turns out that she is the one out of whose ears Tracy-Ann Oberman pulled something white and squiggly last Saturday, but not playing the same character, which is something of a relief under the circumstances.
Oh, and the head cold is still going strong. Bastard that it is.
