Winston, my cat, is glowering at me from the mat.
He is not allowed out this afternoon , to give my birds a chance to feed. November has little to recommend it, but it does mark the start of the winter bird feeding season. The feeders are festooned with fat balls, the tables are loaded with seed and the birds have arrived in style.
First the blue tits swarmed in, then came the great tits and sneaking in amongst them a jauntily quiffed crested tit. Then the robin spotted the food, then came a few chaffinces, a solitary green finch and a smart nuthatch followed. The white back of the head stripe announced a coal tit and suddenly twice the size of everything else there was a fat billed female haw finch, who bullied everything else away for half an hour of solitary gorging.
Winston was still inside, still in a rage and then to add insult to injury a sparrow hawk swooped through the trees looking to do some feeding of her own from amongst my new guests.
Why is she allowed to hunt and not me?
Oh, Winston the injustices of the world are manifold. Have a stroke instead.