Pied Wagtail Day

In the good old days the sun shined all day, children played on railway tracks, parents told their kids to count the traffic or to catch butterflies and stick pins through their wings, sweets cost 1d for five, and there were pied wagtails everywhere. This weather is reminding me of my childhood.  Obviously, it never rained in my memory until I became a mooning teenager, writing names of boys I fancied, who would never look at me twice in the condensation on my bedroom window, so my memories of being a child are filled with long hot sunny days, roaming the streets until my friend had to be home for tea at five. We would hang around the park or go for long cycle rides in the countryside or just set up some chairs and canes to compete in our own version of Horse of the Year Show in the garden.  In 1976, which this year reminds me most of, my dad made a sprinkler with a hosepipe and an old Quality Street tin that he had put holes in.  We weren't allowed to use it until after 5pm, when the water inspectors had gone home but then the neighbours would join us and children and adults would run through the spray, squealing with delight.  

Describing this idyll could easily fool you into thinking that things were so much better then. I'm always wary of falling into that trap but there were pied wagtails everywhere and you hardly see any now.  I always liked this bird.  It seemed childlike, full of fun, bobbing it's head and tail up and down as it bounced around the garden, collecting insects.

I was reminded of these birds because I saw two.  I was walking up to the High Street (to buy more bird food) and there was one on a garden fence, giving chirrup-y instructions to his mate on the ground.  "That's it.  Pick it up.  Soooo pretty.  Nice in our nest."  I looked at the other bird who was struggling to pick something up from the ground.

"NO!" I shouted, waving my arms and scaring the birds away.  "Maybe that's why we don't see them any more," I thought.

When I got home I told the Long Suffering Husband. "Hmmm," he said, making me think he wasn't really listening.  

"What I don't understand is if they can put them out, why can't they bring them back in," he said in his most judgy voice, simultaneously failing to sweep away the crumbs from the bread he had just cut.

"People don't realise," I told him. "I bet most of them shared the David Attenborough thing about plastic in the sea on Facebook.  They'd be mortified if they knew."

"Hmmm," he replied, scanning through the Sky listings.

So, a week after Cabbie Day I made it my mission to collect what remained of the brightly coloured pieces of rubber.  There were a few whole balloons still attached to lamp posts but most were in pieces on the floor.  If it had rained they would have washed down the drain and into the belly of some poor unsuspecting turtle.  

Balloons collected after Cabbie Day (£1 for scale)

If I were a pied wagtail, full of childish bounce, I'd probably think it looked like a good nest too.