A dishevelled blackbird has taken up residence in my garden.
Blackbirds are renowned for their sleek, ink-black plumage. This bird’s feathers are grubby and matted. Sticking out at odd angles, they look as if they’ve been plucked from his body and randomly glued back on again. We’ve named him Boris.
Two blackbirds seen together bring good luck, according to folklore. That should have been great news for me because I've often seen a second male blackbird alongside him. But Boris is having none of it. My garden is his alone.
He might look worse for wear, as the picture shows, but Boris has proved he’s no pushover. Yesterday, I spotted him in a rooftop scrap with his rival. Boris charged straight for him, knocking him clean off the tiles. Clearly he has a ruthless streak.
A bit like his political namesake. Remember that time when our burly Prime Minister tackled a startled 10 year old boy to the ground in a game of street rugby? He was London Mayor at the time, in Japan, on a visit of discovery and shared understanding, something Boris the bird has no interest in.
If a blackbird nests near your house (back to folklore again) you can expect a year of good luck. This really could be great news for me because, from the way Boris the bird is aggressively defending his territory, it would seem he's already decided to settle down. That’s assuming his frightful appearance and lack of social grace hasn’t put off any prospective mate.
The downside? I could end up with a brood of mini Boris’s, all looking like burst pillows and jostling for prime position.