I have a bird table.
Actually I have two. One is new but the other is somewhat tired and frankly rotten.
The old one is just standing there. The roof has collapsed onto the table and it’s a very sorry sight. But it’s part of the history of this place so doesn’t deserve euthanasia. Not yet anyway. I’m an old softie at heart.
The other table is new but is shorter than the old one. This is a problem as Herself loves watching her feathered friends through the window. She could see the old table perfectly but she could only see the top of the roof of the new one.
Being somewhat priding myself as a problem solver I got an old table frame. I lashed up a base out of scrap timber and put this on the bottom shelf of the table and I sat the bird table on that. Brilliant! It was exactly the right height and the feeding commenced. I have been putting out the seed on almost a daily basis and Herself has named all the regular birds [God help us!] and now greets them by name.
This morning the whole lot had moved.
Somehow the whole edifice had shifted about three feet across the stone terrace so it was no longer visible for Herself.. What the fuck?
Herself came up with the bright idea that someone had moved it.
“Like who?” says I.
“Neighbours, or maybe Daughter?” she replied.
“So you’re suggesting that someone came around to the back of the house in the small hours of the morning and moved a bird table a couple of feet for some weird reason and did nothing else?”
“Yes, it does sound a bit daft when you put it like that. You must have moved it.”
Being somewhat used to being blamed for absolutely everything I dismissed that idea out of hand. Even she admitted it was a bit far fetched even for me.
We thought about it. Wind was a possibility but it wasn’t that windy last night and anyway the whole yoke is reasonably heavy. A wind strong enough to move it would doubtless have caused some other minor damage. Earthquake? 5G? Hit by a meteorite? Covid?
I have moved it back again. It wasn’t heavy. But it wasn’t light either.
It shall remain a mystery.
Unless of course the Old Ghost is back…..?
A gang of teenage buzzards perhaps, on a day out making mischief?
That’s a distinct possibility. I imagine though it would take something larger. A Golden Eagle or two? An Albatross?
Gannet on a stick?
The old Monty Python jokes never fade away!
It’s a good job the memsahib doesn’t read your page otherwise I would be squarely in the frame for this. If our sainted PM (Comrade Johnson) were to trip over an otherwise invisible stone it would be my fault, when anyone who knows me would know that a sock filled with 2p pieces would be far more likely.
You’d risk damaging a perfectly good sock? And what if some of the coins were damaged? That would be a terrible crime. A length of gas pipe is much more economical, and easier to clean. So I’m told.
“Neighbours, or maybe Daughter?”
Possibly it was Daughter’s neighbors. Far less likely to be suspect, but undoubtedly you have done something lately to piss them off. Do you take your pipe when visiting? I ask because I’m given to understand that the aroma of Condor is “off putting” to the faint of heart.
Poltergeists, or the little people
Definitely Aos sí – you probably put the table on one of their paths.