On a whim, I joined Twitter the other day and was prompted to go to the website again today because I received an email saying that someone was following me. On line that is. Not in the spooky sense of a rapist or murderer. As I'd only written one tweet which didn't amount to much I thought I'd better investigate.

However, reading a few tweets posted on Twitter I have come to the conclusion that you'd get more sense out of an actual bird. I have found Stephen Fry's tweetings and asked him to explain what his latest few cryptic words meant. Don't suppose I'd be able to understand his answer even if he does repond. Him being a famous intellectual and question master of QI. But, one never knows.

As you'll see from my previous postings (ignoring the boats theme) my life seems overrun with birds at the moment - injured ones, not injured ones, brightly coloured ones, and now incomprehensible human ones. Instead of tweeting and twittering like sparrows or canaries, I'd prefer a more wholesome Caw. Perhaps I could make a fortune by starting up a new social network system for cawers. Any suggestions for its name?

                                                                   A wholesome cawer

After going to the private view of the Royal Society of Marine Artists' Exhibition in the Mall Gallery on Tuesday, we staggered over to Trafalgar Square to see the ship in a bottle, the latest bit of nonsense, I mean art, installed on the fourth plinth. Depictions of my two brightly painted collared doves mentioned in my last two posting might have been more interesting, especially if they moved. I have to say there were a lot of ships on display in London, although as we'd just been viewing a maritime exhibition maybe my judgement on that score was skewed.

Disappointingly, there were no nibbles or wine on offer at the private view so by the time we arrived back home we were ravenous and scoffed the fish and chips we had bought en route using our fingers and ramming the food into our mouths in a quite disgusting way. Food had rarely tasted so good.

The two collared doves mentioned in my last posting were sitting very still in the garden today so I had an idea.

'Where are the tranquilisers I take when I go to the dentist?' I asked Mr.A.

'Where d'you think,' he replied in an acid tone, 'they're in the medicine cupboard stored next to the toothpaste.'

Ignoring the sarcastic barb, I dashed to said cupboard, snatched up the pills, bashing one them into smithereens with the end of the lavatory brush (which was nearby), mixed the resultant powder with some honey which entailed a trip downstairs, went up again to find my old blow darts which haven't been used for a while, brushed the pointy ends with the tranquiliser mixture, ran into the garden, quickly taking aim at the peacefully sitting sweetly innocent collared doves, hitting the targets cleanly one after the other, almost at the speed of light.

I watched them, keeping a look-out for signs which I was familiar with from my visits to the dentist. And yes, in just the same way, their eyes started to swirl, their claws slowly relaxed, and one after the other they gently fell to the soft lawn below. Hastily, I got out my acrylic paints, large paintbrush, special acrylic palette and water pots, eagerly painting the slumbering birds a fetching orange and turquoise. I hope they like the effect and it won't psychologically upset them, I now ponder. But I must say the colourful display gives me a lot of pleasure. The dove grey was lovely and soft but these colours are zinging. They look quite like parrots.

I noticed this bird sitting completely still on our back lawn. 'It's a pigeon,' Mr A said, as if that explained its inertness and also its shape. 'It's not!' I snorted, provoking a spat which ended in me grabbing up our Bird Book and riffling wildly through the pages, eventually discovering it was a baby collared dove. About an hour later I saw it was still there so I walked down to investigate. As I drew near it studied me peacefully, which, for a dove, was only to be expected I suppose. Using my high-pitched gentle cooing voice I spoke to it, hoping it would be fooled into thinking I was its mother, which it may not have had time to fully take in, being so young. It stared at me with what seemed to me like love in its little round eyes and I wanted to snatch it up and swaddle it in my mother's hand-crocheted shawl, if only I'd have kept it, which I hadn't. 'Stay there,' little one I squeak-cooed, rushing back to the house to get it some bread and water.

As I ventured close I reassured it again with my female-collared-dove high voice. It didn't budge, just gently gazed at me. I tore off a morsel of bread and threw it underarm but it didn't get near enough for it to reach. I tried again. And again. Then I took aim and chucked a chunk overarm, accidentally hitting it broadside on, sending it into a frenzied wing-dragging limp away from me and up onto a plank of wood where it perched displaying its poor shredded tail.

 

Sadly, we had to leave the bird to fend for itself all night. The next day - which happened to be the very lucky date of 10.10.10, a date that pleased me no end - I went down the garden and found it sitting patiently under the conifer tree. Carefully I pushed a shallow container of water towards it but, once again it took flight, but that only in the 'fleeing' meaning of the word. Obviously, with a wing like that the other meaning was impossible. So much for the tenth of the tenth of the tenth being lucky I thought, mooching off. But later, when I went back to check on it, a miracle had occured because to my utter amazement another baby collared dove was keeping it company!

On the morning of the 11th, just the uninjured bird was there, sitting about two feet up on the branch of the conifer tree. No sign of the demise of the injured one, no feathers or bloody corpse. Zilch. Nothing. And by the twelfth, even the miracle comforting bird had vanished into thin air. 

If I had a photo of me looking fed up, I'd download it for all to see. But I haven't so I've used a picture of a chimp instead. The reason for my fed-upness is that after many problems on line and on phone I've discovered that to make the return rail journey from Tunbridge Wells to London at rush hour times costs £55. And the trip takes less than an hour - always supposing there are no leaves on the line, or pigeons or chimps. Fed up and flabbergasted, that's me because Mr A will be making the journey too and that will cost over £100, which will make my eyes water. And as the reason for going is for an eye surgeon to look at my eyes that's pretty droll. Anyay, we'll have to buy senior railcards which allows all and sundry to see that we're ancient, including the handsome young man in the booking office who I bat my eyes at. That last bit isn't true, but most of the rest is. Hey ho.

Wending their weird and weary way

Weirdly, this picture I painted of sheep wending their weird and weary way did not sell, even though it is two foot six square and was boldly hung in a local shop window. Such is the life of an artist. Hope, quickly dashed by disappointment.

I have now fully recovered mentally and physically from the exertions of the first Crowborough Arts Festival in which my weird sheep picture was but a miniscule part: a lone little pixel in a full colour chart. Artists, actors, musicians, photographers, sculptors, adults, children, all were involved. I shared a garage studio with a talented American photographer - a garage that was lent to us by kind people for the two weekends of the Show. My now-very-old husband and I nearly froze to death in that wondrous place on the last Sunday as an icy North wind blew leaves in to twirl around us. This demise was averted however by hot soup provided by our garage hosts and an hour's reprieve by our daughter who took over so that we could warm our ancient bones. Picture, print and card sales were made, so hope prevailed, and, what's more, friendships were forged - which was the major intention of the Festival.

So, hooray for art, artists, musicians, writers, singers, children and grown-ups, and generous people who give up their time to run such events and lend out their garages!