King John Was Not A Good Man

To make sense of the blog I was about to write you really need to understand a little background to Max, the Jackdaw that took up forced residence in our shed while sorting out a little problem with his port wing. So I've dug this out from last September. I do hope Matron won't complain about all the regurgitation on the Corner Cupboard site. I promise I've left nothing on the floor. Besides I did behave myself (again) at the Purple Party (sigh!) and went to bed quite early. Must be getting old, I suppose. On the other hand this blog shows yet further evidence of my madness in addressing the animal kingdom on equal terms.Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble......

I looked into the shed on Friday morning to be greeted by Max, our resident but invalid Jackdaw, who shot me a dirty look.

"And where were you yesterday?" he seemed to be saying with his bright blue eyes.

I noted that his recovery must be progressing for he was hopping around the shed in a manner bordering on energetic.

"I went to Stratford," I explained as I changed his water and took yet another IKEA meatball out of the freezer to defrost for him, "to see King John."

To which remark I added, "caw! " And then as the bird made no response, "caw-caw!"

Max was sitting on the handle of the garden strimmer. He turned his head and looked at me pathetically. OK, so maybe Jackdaw impressions are not my forte but ever since Max entered our shed two weeks ago he has uttered not one cheep or croak or whatever sound it is that Jackdaws make. I am making all the communication attempts while he just glares at me. In the face of this ingratitude I feel like asking whether he would have preferred me to have left him to the cats: certainly I would have had a cleaner shed without a litter of half-eaten crusts and bird droppings everywhere. But I desisted.

"Quite brilliant," I explained instead. "The play, I mean. The RSC do these shows so incredibly well that one never begrudges the ticket price. Indeed it is rather pleasing to think that, with all the Arts subsidies, the Government are probably paying as much for the ticket as you are. You are getting double value really.

If Max agreed he showed no sign of divulging the fact.

"King John is rarely performed," I continued to Max. "Nevertheless it is a racy, pacy play; full of excellent characters. History takes a bit of a backseat to drama of course, but then it always does."

Max appeared completely without interest in either history or drama, or even in my tale of the goings on of his fellow avians, the flocks of Canada geese that careered about the river Avon waking the whole town with their honking and disturbing our picnic arrangements on the river bank.

So I left the shed and closed the door. As I did so I could hear him scrabbling about on the other side, no doubt finishing his breakfast of sweet biscuit and meatball.

And then...what was that? Did I did detect a murmur from within, or was I imagining the sound?

Yes, from deep within the shed I heard a Jackdaw pecking at a digestive biscuit and muttering angrily to himself....."King John was not a Good Man, he had his little ways. And sometimes no-one spoke to him, for days and days and days."

Oh, come on Max, it was only twenty-four hours. But Fennie did feel guilty for leaving him alone so long!