When Mr Blackbird met a pretty brown lady blackbird during last winter, little did he know the trouble he was letting himself in for. Life seemed a breeze, setting up home together, committing themselves to a modest mortgage so they could afford to build a small nest, and then the excitement of Mrs Blackbird producing the first delicate blue egg; just one was fine, but then came another; and another and another.... And Mr Blackbird, being a modern man, made an effort to be at the births, even though it meant missing his Friday evening session on the compost heap - where the best worms are found - with his blackbird mates.
Suddenly there are five gaping pink mouths crying to be filled, and even though the people in the house leave scraps out, like cheese rind and breadcrumbs, which the children seem to relish, Mrs Blackbird keeps going on about how they can't be brought up on junk food, they need a balanced diet, and so would he please go and find some worms. Which he did, spending some frenetic minutes under the raspberry bushes in full view of the household cat which, fortunately, was so fat it couldn't be bothered to chase him.
Now it's all day scurry, scurry, scurry, from one place to another, looking for food, and not a moment for himself. He's up around five, when it's light, and doesn't stop until almost seven, when the sun drops below the hill; which very nearly makes a one-hundred hour working week. His clothes are a mess, he's lost weight, he can't sleep for worrying about the local pine marten, and, worst of all, Mrs Blackbird has kicked him out of the family home at night because there isn't room for all of them. And when he walks in through the door, does he get a "Thank you" from anyone? No, all he gets is, "More, more, more!"Who'd be a Dad?
Brilliant!
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