Little birdies dirty feet
Some months ago The Horse Doctor and I changed our car. The old Peugeot was getting to the point where things were starting to go wrong, and quite frankly we fancied a change. This was around the time that the house debacle had finally collapsed, so like the fools that we are, we splashed out a little of the deposit we had saved on something a bit more flash than we can really justify. The farm staff here call it the Batmobile, probably because it's black and has got red leather seats. Welsh humour.
Anyway, I don't want to show off about my new car here. I want to moan and rant, so that is what I'll do.
There are six farm cottages here, three sets of semis built in the 1960s. Six garages were built at the same time. A further two were built more recently, alongside the pair of cottages that are sited furthest away, which means I've been able to nab two of the old garages. Great, you might say. But there's a problem. JulieD, the spider, being a car built in the 1960s just about fits, but the new car doesn't. Neither did the Peugeot before it, or the car we had before that. It's just too narrow. They both leak when it rains (which is always, here in Wales) but that's a moan for another time.
So I have to park the Batmobile by the house.
This shouldn't be a problem. It's a modern car, waterproof, properly painted and not prone to the corrosion problems associated with the marque in the seventies and early eighties. Rain's not the problem, and neither is the muck thrown up by passing tractors.
No the problem is little birds.
They particularly like to sit on the radio antenna and poo all over the back window and roof. But occasionally they'll cling to the mirrors or doors and try to fight their reflections, defecating in fear all the time. They seem to live in the hedge alongside which I have to park, and their digestive systems are kept well-loaded by the bird feeders in all the neighbouring gardens.
Buddug, bless her, does her best to keep them off, but a girl can only do so much. It's a complete pain getting the twigs and leaves out of her fluff, too.
And finding the feathers under the bed is almost as bad as constantly washing the car.
Time to think about rooting out the hedge, methinks. It's a horrible old privet that nobody will miss. Then I'll be able to stare out the window at the Batmobile all day instead of writing.
Anyway, I don't want to show off about my new car here. I want to moan and rant, so that is what I'll do.
There are six farm cottages here, three sets of semis built in the 1960s. Six garages were built at the same time. A further two were built more recently, alongside the pair of cottages that are sited furthest away, which means I've been able to nab two of the old garages. Great, you might say. But there's a problem. JulieD, the spider, being a car built in the 1960s just about fits, but the new car doesn't. Neither did the Peugeot before it, or the car we had before that. It's just too narrow. They both leak when it rains (which is always, here in Wales) but that's a moan for another time.
So I have to park the Batmobile by the house.
This shouldn't be a problem. It's a modern car, waterproof, properly painted and not prone to the corrosion problems associated with the marque in the seventies and early eighties. Rain's not the problem, and neither is the muck thrown up by passing tractors.
No the problem is little birds.
They particularly like to sit on the radio antenna and poo all over the back window and roof. But occasionally they'll cling to the mirrors or doors and try to fight their reflections, defecating in fear all the time. They seem to live in the hedge alongside which I have to park, and their digestive systems are kept well-loaded by the bird feeders in all the neighbouring gardens.
Buddug, bless her, does her best to keep them off, but a girl can only do so much. It's a complete pain getting the twigs and leaves out of her fluff, too.
And finding the feathers under the bed is almost as bad as constantly washing the car.
Time to think about rooting out the hedge, methinks. It's a horrible old privet that nobody will miss. Then I'll be able to stare out the window at the Batmobile all day instead of writing.
Comments
Or a bb gun...