And what’s worse, they’ve figured out that windows are basically a hoax. Or: Doris and the Domesticated Tit.

There was another encounter with a bird the other day. I don’t know anymore, about me and the birds. I think I’m being nice, putting food out way before that is even necessary. nice, and egocentric, cos I like having things moving around at the other side of the window. Makes it easier for me to sit down at my desk and do things. Scratch the niceness, those birds are being tolerated on my balcony purely for my entertainment and peace of mind.

My master-plan backfired somewhat. I took to the store and returned triumphantly with a decent German food-chain, or ‘Futterkette’. Peanuts and bits of tree and all that kind of stuff birds go num-nuts over. Methinks a philanthropist I shall play, but then  only with birds. A packet consisting of eight equal parts chow, ready to be turned into big piles of feather, ready for the winter. Last year all types of feathered friends found their way to the balcony, so this year would be just as fun, I thought. I thought.

There was ruffling of feathers, if I may say so, a mere minutes after I put the thing up. We are used to put clothes outside to air but we can’t, now that our balcony has turned into birdshit-ground zero. The moment you peek your head outside the door you’ll get dive-bombed. And what’s worse, they’ve figured out that windows are basically a hoax.

On a faithful morning, let’s say it was Wednesday, I was woken up by a  rustling of sorts. There was something moving about in my pencil vase that was not supposed to be moving about there. As I shot up the ceiling, it became apparent a bird had made its way to beyond the window (I’m one of those crazy snow people who insists on having the window open even if hell is about to freeze over). This happened before a summer ago, when the window was slightly more inviting for what’s outside to hop in. Wednesday, it was not. Yet somehow a bird made it through.

Birdie insisted to stay in, as we have such a lovely place. A pencil vase is a brilliant place to plan spawn into come spring. And please plant more poop onto my window sill! Perhaps this means good luck in Finland, I have no idea. Either way, I had just rudely been awakened -not a morning person, it takes about a barrel of coffee to make me civil, and then breakfast (brekkie! most important meal of the day folks), face painting, finding furniture with toes and knees, putting pants on, off, skirts, tights, ripping a hole into the tights so the tights need -MUST- be swapped for tights without holes, swap skirt, fall down, get up.

Getting on with it, I had just been rudely awakened. Staggering about, thinking what to do with the bird, perhaps keeping it in and making it docile (Doris and the Domesticated Tit), having it braid my hair just like in those Disney movies… but sooner rather than later it became apparent the bird would have to take back into nature. The other side of the window. Now, with a mind having the viscosity of lukewarm cauliflower at this hour, how would one possibly go about this?

Trying to persuade the bird to go back through the crack in the window, that’s right! Birds are smart and not at all skittish, they could easily follow my train of thought. Wrong, wrong, a thousand times wrong. Bird freaked out by me approaching the curtains, as a bird should. Bird went in between the two windows (we’re in Finland where all the windows come in two), insisting this was the way out. It was not. Bird took a dump.

I went outside trying to give the bird some space, and to chase the rest of the tribe of the railing (one bird in the building is quite enough, mind you). Came back in and made a second attempt in persuading bird to go whence he came. Yonder, beyond the glass. Of course, bird doesn’t like big yellow dish-gloves (thought that’s be wise) coming at him so after bird took another dump, bird took to the living room. There was now a living bird flopping, flipping and flapping about in our living room. I stayed behind in the bedroom horrified, hoping and praying it’d at least find a place to roost. It sort of hung above the curtain rail at some point. I managed to sneak out, open the door, and stay out on the balcony until birdie finally bolted out with a determination I have never seen in a bird.

And so concludes the quest of Doris and the Domesticated Tit (I really like that title). i am too afraid to keep the window open now so at night it’s like I’m slowly being toasted, like a marshmallow.

Image result for bob's burgers marshmallow

 

 

 

‘Copper Scoundrel’ we say in the lands below the sea.

says facebook:
Good evening Doris! (there’s nothing good here, you fools)
 
‘tomorrow will be a bright and sunny day. Why don’t you go outside and enjoy it!’ (yea, like them normal peoples? Like them hipsters? Be vegan and politically correct in the sunshine? Wait while I hoist myself onto my vehicle!!)
 
Facebook how dare you. If you’d know me any better (and I’m surprised you don’t considering all the data mining and whatnot) you’d know that I loathe sunshine. Loathe. Sunshine is the worst. ‘Copper Scoundrel’ we say in the lands below the sea.
 
Sunshine makes the anxiety skyrocket. It blinds me as I sit here typing during the day. Sunshine is the work of the devil, as far as I’m concerned. Clouds is all I need. Monday was a damn fine day, weatherwise. Sunday too. Just hide that damn sun and we won’t have any trouble.
 
Foggy weather brings joy. Clouds make me get stuff done. Snow and ice – I can only dream still at this point, but the snowy picture on the news this morning made my mouth water.
 
Shove your sunshine where the sun won’t shine! oh, wait……

Numbers and figures and such don’t like to be folded into a nice, comfy blanket with words.

Stokpaardjes are fun, cos Stokpaardjes never slow down. Once they’re on fire, they’re on fire and it would take someone brave, or perhaps a professional hockey goalie to halt a Stokpaardje.I have not been on my Stokpaardje for a while now and it sure is great to be taken for a ride.

Whole bits and longer bits adjacent to the first bits got stamped out of my keyboard in no-time. Could have something to do with the two beers I downed under pressure, could have something to do with the fact that the deadline for a school report is not Thursday, but tomorrow already. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you. Tomorrow, is always a day away.

I sure hope my Stokpaardje stays, so much fun making sentences out of data. Making data Shakespearean, such joy. Numbers and figures and such don’t like to be folded into a nice, comfy blanket with words, nay, adjectives, and sub-contexts, and pieces of paragraph with diced discourse drizzled on top. Numbers are a goddamned chore. My stokpaardje can carry me through all that, even if the topic is girlie stuff from a jar and China. Stuff I should sort of know about. There should be no need for  a Stokpaardje here, yet here we are.

After having accomplished very little for a few months -well, there was a summer holiday. Scratch that, summer hiatus, in which I worked, labored. Tough-ass labour, in a store, with windows in the roof, and fancy stones in cabinets that we’re not allowed to photograph anymore, and Chinese people. A couple of phases I went through with these folks. Be-wondering – disbelief – zombie-ism – denial – sincere joy and backsliding to disbelief. They grope me for luck. Once my arm, usually my buttocks. Then again, Chinese old people are slightly shorter than your regular healthy, blushing, Dutch girl who pedals on her bike to the office, come rain come shine. They reach up, they get stuck in my bikebutt.

School started somewhere in the middle of all this and I forgot when exactly. ‘member school? I ‘member! I ‘member going once, getting kicked out cos the class was full, going again, getting the boot again cos again -full, and then there were all of the Chinese people again, who -let’s face it, pay for my beer, and Fida. Beer and Fida. Beer closes at 9, Fida closes at 7 already! What school? WHERE??

All there is now is a deadline, and thankfully – my Stokpaardje. I am galloping once more. Perhaps those Chinese old ladies stored numbers up my shaft cos that’s where I feel my inspiration is coming from at the moment. l’Chaim!