A pussy, some tits, and some very poor puns



Harry the cat - on my bird box



Rumbled.

Some of you may remember me talking about Harry before. Harry is our neighbour’s cat and is somewhat prone to getting up to mischief.

Yesterday I caught him doing a little window shopping.

Harry had decided to check out the pick ‘n’ mix from the self service counter in our Apple tree, and like any other three year old in the World, stood in an open cased sweet shop, he couldn’t quite resist having a little try.

We built the bird box last year, in one of those –“We are such a wonderful family, that never ever fights or argues and certainly look after our planet” moments, just in between Daniel hitting Jamie with a bike lock and me sneaking back to the house to watch the Formula 1 Grand Prix.

We try.

Anyway, I’d kept a straight face as the lady showing us what to do asked us what kind of bird we were hoping to get in our box, so she could give me the right sized hole to ‘poke through’. I even ignored it when she asked if the birds should enter from the rear. However, I was pushed too far and lost it when Jamie declared that he wanted “a box for tits.”

I was messy.

I was thoroughly glared at.

And so it was, that late last summer I nailed up a bird box, following some amazingly detailed instructions for how to trap collect house Blue Tits.

I had no confidence at all that this would work. I’d found it quite difficult to balance the compass and tape measure in one hand at the top of a ladder, while swinging a hammer with my other hand.

Getting hold of a pair of tits is a tricky science you know.

It was worth the effort though, because Harry discovered a little secret that I otherwise would not have noticed.

We have birds.

Not just any old birds either, because while Harry sat on the box shrugging his shoulders and asking me, “Do you have a ten pence for five twos? I don’t think this vending machine accepts copper coins.” on the branch of the next tree along sat an absolutely fuming Blue Tit.

No, I didn’t manage to get a photo – sadly, it just didn’t occur to me at the time – this is why I’m not a photo-blogger.

The Blue Tit was going absolutely mental at Harry, that bird was not happy at all, and I suspect strongly that if you could translate the chirps and whistles into English, you would need to get hold of one of those bleep machines fast. That bird had a beak from the gutter, I can tell you. The Blue Tit would not budge from its spot and would certainly not stop swearing, even when I pointed out there were children present.

As the penny dropped in my head that our box had indeed attracted Blue Tits, which is beyond all rational belief, I made a quick decision and shooed Harry away (I didn’t have time to ask my wife what I wanted to do, so I just had to guess what she would want me to want to do about it), much to his annoyance, and Barry ‘the Gypsy’ Blue’s relief.

The boys, and my wife, all absolutely love the discovery, as do I.

Especially because I can now tell my wife that I’m putting the zoom lens on the camera so I can photo her tits, without getting smacked.

Unlike last time I tried it.