It’s all about the birds (magpies and mental health)

It has been a busy few days. There was the funeral and my daughter moved the next day. We helped. The Long Suffering Husband hired a van and my Fitbit told me that I’d done 74 flights of stairs carrying everything out of her flat. I joked that I was postponing my mental breakdown for Monday.
“I was nearly one of those annoying people who said, ‘I bet this will make the blog,’” her boyfriend said.
I had to point out that he wasn’t funny enough and even his reference to central sluts probably wasn’t going to do it.

Leicestershire is a funny place, though. There are villages that sound like they are named after masters of the hunt: Ashby-de-la Zouch, Newton Burgoland, Kirkby Mallory,  Newbold Verdon, Stoney Stanton, Broughton Astley and Dunton Bassett to name a few. The birds sound different too.
I wish Shazam worked on birdsong. Google doesn't quite have it covered at 3am, when you can't sleep and you can hear what sound like large birds shouting, "Choff, Choff."

I wasn't entirely joking about the breakdown.  People talking about their mental health has become very fashionable but it's not easy and not something I ever thought would happen to me.  "I'll be fine. I'm strong," I said to myself. I thought I'd got all the strategies in place. I walk, do yoga, drink water, eat well. I'm a breathing master and being outside, reading psychology papers and counting are my idea of fun. However, even with all known CBT strategies I've been struggling.  Woah! I can't believe I just confessed to that.
*hot flush* *deep breaths*

As soon as mum was diagnosed I saw a single Magpie on my daily walk. "One for sorrow," I muttered to myself, desperately looking round to see if I could see another.  I heard the Magpie's song in my sleep.  From the day Mum died until the funeral I didn't see one Magpie. Today, on breakdown day they are all over the place.  It seems like it's Magpie sex day.  They are in hedgerows and bushes, flapping and trilling (normally they click). I walked most of the day and they didn't stop.  Eventually, the dog made me go home.  He had spent the weekend with my sister, finishing off the funeral salmon and he was tired of waddling in the sunshine. We sat in the garden. Normally, it is his job to protect me from flying things.  He parades the perimeter barking at flies, pigeons and low flying aircraft.  Not today, though.  Today, he sat under the chair, farting, too full to move.  All of a sudden a magpie flew into me.  It actually flew into me. It's wing clipped the side of my face. One for sorrow.