I very nearly buggered things up this morning. I’d been watching the cottage – to try and get a firm idea of their routine. They’d gone off to work and I decided to head back home. And was just scuttling up out of the woods onto the bank when a proper, fully paid-up birder came bearing down on me.
I could tell straight away that some sort of explanation was called for. He looked quite affronted. Presumably at seeing some woman my age on her hands and knees, scrambling about the place.
‘You know, you shouldn’t really be wandering around in there,’ he said. ‘That’s private property.’
Honestly. What is it with men and territory? I mean, is it the only way they’re able to relate to the world? By parcelling it up into what’s theirs and what isn’t, then getting tetchy at the first hint of an encroachment. Even when it’s on someone else’s behalf.
I think the fact that he felt at liberty to be so utterly patronising to a complete stranger rather spurred me on – in that it put my nose out to such a degree that I switched immediately from apologetic/pathetic to something far more combative.
‘I needed a pee,’ I said. Or declared, perhaps. It was that other version of myself speaking again now. And I told him, quite plainly, that I thought I’d been doing everyone a favour by seeking out a little privacy. But that from now on I would simply squat down and pee in the middle of the path for all the world to see.
I’m not sure. Perhaps I’d been a little too graphic. From his expression, you’d think it was just about the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard.
Well, he flustered and blustered about for a couple of seconds. Then he went storming off down the path – his mind quite likely addled for the rest of the day with the image of me defiantly squatting and peeing before him. And I went off in the other direction.
I think I must have been feeling slightly guilty, because five minutes later I came across another pair of birders and went out of my way to stop and have a chat with them.
I asked if they’d seen anything interesting, and they mentioned – with, I suspect, a large helping of false modesty – several birds whose names meant nothing to me. All the same, I had the distinct feeling that I was meant to be impressed. And when they asked if I’d had any luck myself I found I simply couldn’t help myself and, perhaps imagining that saying anything with sufficient authority might somehow compensate for my having nothing remotely intelligent to say, I plucked a couple of birds’ names out of thin air and pointed down the path to where I’d recently seen them.
The birders both stood and stared right back at me. As if I were drunk. Or deranged. I can’t even remember what birds I claimed to have spotted. But I think there’s a good chance they were specimens which are currently meant to be nesting in the Arctic. Or South America. Or possibly completely new birds that I’d just invented, by combining bits of other birds’ names.
*
I don’t mind the cold and wet. Some days I quite like it. The discomfort. As if I’m punishing myself. I lean against that old wet wall in the semi-darkness and think perhaps today instead of getting light it might just get dark again. And the darkness will wrap its velvet arms around me and the dark wet wood will just swallow me up.
I’ve really got to get my act together. I’m just going to have to take a breath and actually get on with it. Because if I don’t I’m going to be stuck here forever, in my own home-made purgatory. I’ll try and do it tomorrow. Maybe I should have a little slug of rum or brandy. Like they used to give the lads in the First World War – to give them courage before sending them up the ladders and over the top.