The robin

This morning as we sit in bed having breakfast, we hear sudden chirrupings downstairs in the conservatory, the door of which is wide open. Then they stop. Ten minutes later they start again and Frog races downstairs.

    ‘It’s a bird,’ he shouts. ‘A robin I think. It’s gone up to your room now.’

    I put on my dressing-gown and follow him up to my writing room. The bird is fluttering frantically from side to side. Frog is dancing around in the nude, flinging open windows and brandishing the hooked stick I use to open my Velux roof windows.

    ‘Come here, you little blighter,’ he shouts.

    The robin disappears under my desk and into the furthest corner of the room inside some dusty inaccessible shelves.

    ‘Why don’t we sit quietly’, I suggest, ‘and when he appears again throw a t-shirt over him.’

    I say this three times but Frog doesn’t seem to hear me so I go downstairs and fetch a dirty t-shirt from the laundry basket. I return and we sit quietly for all of two minutes. When nothing happens, I make another suggestion.

    ‘Why don’t we open all the windows wide, shut the door and leave him to it.’

    Reluctantly, Frog agrees. He doesn’t like me making suggestions. Or perhaps it’s the robin that’s made him cross.*

    I have a shower and get dressed then go back up to my writing room. I want to switch on my computer. I don’t want a robin dying in a corner. I hope he’s gone, but how will I know?

    I open the door and see the robin trying to get out of one of the Veluxes. I race over to the window, push it open a little further, and he’s gone, zooming off to his patch in the garden, wherever that is, seemingly unhurt.

    All that he’s left behind is some feathers and a little dribble of crap down the middle of my computer screen.


* Frog says it was the robin that made him cross - and the dog as well although he's not sure why. (Perhaps he blames the dog for letting the robin into the house.)