We live in one of the Regency houses in Portobello, or rather in the basement of one, with an iron staircase leading down to a little gravel-lined yard and a glass-panelled front door. It's lovely, very safe, very southside. But whenever Andrew comes home, he always checks under the stairs. We had a bungled burglary while we were away over Christmas; some scut sat under the staircase drinking Coke and staking out the kitchen. Then he smashed a panel in the front door and ran away. Andrew came home to it - by the time I got back that evening it was boarded up, the glass wrapped in newspaper and thrown in the bin. The Coke can, however, still sat under the stairs.
I left it there til it got mouldy. I dunno why. It made me feel sick to think of someone squatting there, staring in. Sometime in February I binned it, along with all of autumn's fallen leaves. Then I forgot about it. Instead of checking under the stairs when I got home, I'd check the kitchen window to see if Andrew'd heard my approach and hastily hoiked up his sleeves to get stuck into the dishes.
I approach with trepidation now though.
Last Thursday, I noticed a little sparrow shambling around under our stairs. Apparently unconcerned by my heels clattering down the iron steps, he was poking amongst the leaves and pebbles. He looked like I do after a night of mojitos, all ruffled feathers and temper. I thought he'd take flight but he just eyed me, then resumed his grub hunt. I gave him a name (Tony) and a nod (howyeh) and went on my way.
When I got inside, I asked Andrew if he'd noticed him. He's only a little fella, I said, but I wonder if there might be something wrong with him. Then I forgot about it.
A while later, I passed the front door on my way to the bathroom. The sparrow was standing on one of the wooden slats between the glass panels, headbutting the pane. Again, he saw me, eyed me and went once more about his business. There's definitely something wrong with him, I said to Andrew. He's trying to get in.
And I'm trying not to freak out.
He was still there when we were going to bed, flying up to the street now and then, flapping around under the steps, then sitting expectantly by the door. I spent a long night holding in my wee so that I wouldn't have to pass his perch in the darkness.
He was hiding under the steps again on Friday morning. He made a desperate break for the open door but Andrew stuck his leg out to block him. The little bollix bounced off his suit, made another bum rush for the door and then scuttered back to a corner to sulk. And there he remained, presumably, til we arrived home on Sunday night.
Part of me would love to let him in, just to find out what it is he wants. All the other parts of me know that he would just shit all over the flat, have a heart attack and die. And I'd rather he did that outside, thanks.
He resumed his efforts on Monday and Tuesday (if, indeed, he let up at all over the weekend) and swooped shambolically towards the door any time it was opened. It's made me reluctant to check the post, or to leave the flat for work in the mornings (not that that's not done with some reluctance anyway).
We came home late yesterday evening, and approached the stairs with caution. There was no sign of him. Tied to the handle of the door was a plastic bag containing two peaches. There was no note. A psychotic sparrow and a mysterious gift of fragrant fruit? This was all getting too much for my nerves. I wrenched the bag from the door handle and nearly took the handle with it in my haste to get into the flat before the bird's inevitable return. Once inside, we sniffed the peaches. They smelled lovely. "Not poisoned, then" said Andrew. I wasn't so sure. This morning, I emailed Annie. "This is going to sound odd, but did you leave peaches tied to our front door yesterday?" Turns out she did. There's not many friends you can email who that won't sound odd to, but then there aren't many who're sweet enough to tie foodstuffs to your door handles either. "Was there a poor bird trapped down there trying to get out when you got home?" she asked. "Fucking Tony" said I. "We need a cat".
That, or a tennis racket.
I left it there til it got mouldy. I dunno why. It made me feel sick to think of someone squatting there, staring in. Sometime in February I binned it, along with all of autumn's fallen leaves. Then I forgot about it. Instead of checking under the stairs when I got home, I'd check the kitchen window to see if Andrew'd heard my approach and hastily hoiked up his sleeves to get stuck into the dishes.
I approach with trepidation now though.
Last Thursday, I noticed a little sparrow shambling around under our stairs. Apparently unconcerned by my heels clattering down the iron steps, he was poking amongst the leaves and pebbles. He looked like I do after a night of mojitos, all ruffled feathers and temper. I thought he'd take flight but he just eyed me, then resumed his grub hunt. I gave him a name (Tony) and a nod (howyeh) and went on my way.
When I got inside, I asked Andrew if he'd noticed him. He's only a little fella, I said, but I wonder if there might be something wrong with him. Then I forgot about it.
A while later, I passed the front door on my way to the bathroom. The sparrow was standing on one of the wooden slats between the glass panels, headbutting the pane. Again, he saw me, eyed me and went once more about his business. There's definitely something wrong with him, I said to Andrew. He's trying to get in.
And I'm trying not to freak out.
He was still there when we were going to bed, flying up to the street now and then, flapping around under the steps, then sitting expectantly by the door. I spent a long night holding in my wee so that I wouldn't have to pass his perch in the darkness.
He was hiding under the steps again on Friday morning. He made a desperate break for the open door but Andrew stuck his leg out to block him. The little bollix bounced off his suit, made another bum rush for the door and then scuttered back to a corner to sulk. And there he remained, presumably, til we arrived home on Sunday night.
Part of me would love to let him in, just to find out what it is he wants. All the other parts of me know that he would just shit all over the flat, have a heart attack and die. And I'd rather he did that outside, thanks.
He resumed his efforts on Monday and Tuesday (if, indeed, he let up at all over the weekend) and swooped shambolically towards the door any time it was opened. It's made me reluctant to check the post, or to leave the flat for work in the mornings (not that that's not done with some reluctance anyway).
We came home late yesterday evening, and approached the stairs with caution. There was no sign of him. Tied to the handle of the door was a plastic bag containing two peaches. There was no note. A psychotic sparrow and a mysterious gift of fragrant fruit? This was all getting too much for my nerves. I wrenched the bag from the door handle and nearly took the handle with it in my haste to get into the flat before the bird's inevitable return. Once inside, we sniffed the peaches. They smelled lovely. "Not poisoned, then" said Andrew. I wasn't so sure. This morning, I emailed Annie. "This is going to sound odd, but did you leave peaches tied to our front door yesterday?" Turns out she did. There's not many friends you can email who that won't sound odd to, but then there aren't many who're sweet enough to tie foodstuffs to your door handles either. "Was there a poor bird trapped down there trying to get out when you got home?" she asked. "Fucking Tony" said I. "We need a cat".
That, or a tennis racket.
