The poor bird died this morning.
It managed reasonably well until about ten o’clock, when suddenly the light went out of its eyes. A little while later it suddenly flapped its wings frantically, cawed a bit, and keeled over.
Mark said later that he thought that it sounded as though it had had a heart attack.
It is perhaps as well really. It might have done itself some serious damage when it fell, or possibly the mother bird had shoved it out in the first place because she knew that it was not all right, and therefore not worth the trouble of raiding the Indian restaurant’s dustbins to feed it. The crows do this in Windermere. The Indian restaurant has red table napkins, and if the lid of the dustbin is accidentally left open, the alley starts to look like the scene of a very nasty chainsaw accident.
Anyway, I was sad about the poor crow, although at least it died here in peace in the laundry basket, and was not either squished by a passing Volvo or eaten alive by foxes, which were its other potential futures.
I gave it a ceremonial internment in the dustbin and went to get some new tyres on Mark’s car, after which I came home for a little sleep, because as always I have been short of sleep lately, having worked late last night.
I woke up in time for Number Three Daughter to appear with her new almost-boyfriend, whom I have actually decided that I rather like. He is Romanian, and laughs a lot, which crinkles his eyes up. They stayed for a quick cup of coffee in the garden, and to tell me that they are applying for new jobs.
I was very glad about this, because they told some ghastly stories about the way their Chinese restaurant treats the immigrant staff who do not know their rights. These made my blood boil, and I had to remind myself that it would not be sensible to rush down there straight away, and make a middle-class scene in order to defend the Helpless Poor, because probably everybody would just think that I was mental. I squeaked indignantly for a bit, and they nodded sagely, and then they had to dash off, because until they have got some new jobs to go to, they have still got to go to work.
I would not have done. Actually, I didn’t. We did not go to work.
It is Tuesday night, and there is a football match on the television. This means that everybody will stay at home apart from people who have gone to watch football in the pub, and they will certainly be very drunk, whatever the outcome. I was not terribly enthusiastic about taking them anywhere, so we thought that we would go to the cinema instead.
It was an early showing, so we set off pretty much as soon as Mark came home.
We went to see a film called The Happy Prince, which I wanted to see quite badly.
It was an ace film.
It was not the sort of film which features heroic Americans dashing back into burning buildings to rescue imperilled little girls. It was the dreadful story of the last tragic years of Oscar Wilde.
It was so terribly sad that it made me cry, but that is a secret, do not tell anybody. I do not usually cry at films. Number Two Daughter says that my heart is like my coffee, black and bitter, and usually she is right. I can watch little girls being trapped in towering infernos waiting for American heroes to turn up without the smallest anxiety, but poor Oscar Wilde, deteriorating into his shamed and miserable decline, made me want to rage against the cruelty of the world all over again.
We felt very quiet afterwards. We came home and ate home-cooked curry in the garden tent, and thought sadly that the world can be an unjust place for ugly crows, and immigrant workers, and for the out-of-step of all kinds.
We are so fortunate, so very fortunate.
I am counting all of my wealth of well-fed contented blessings this evening.
The picture is Mark in our garden tent.
