The Sparrow Takes A Bath

EVERYBODY! WAKE UP! IT'S MORNING!

A small child's voice ricocheted round the back gardens, which have a particularly strong slapback echo due the the building layout. I was awake already; the only other sounds were the wheezing flap of pigeons wings (the ones that have relocated from Trafalgar Square, who think of the tall building nearby as a cliff on the South American continent), and the chirrup of sparrows.

An hour later, the tintinnabulation of the bells clattered through the morning air, calling us to church. The one that local toxic Tory politician Theresa Villiers frequents during political hustings. 

No.

Last night, there was a teenager party in the street: 56 of them in a one-bedroom flat, according to the street Whatsapp. It lasted for hours. Like a flock of enormous sparrows (or a herd of young donkeys), they chirruped and brayed in the street outside, muting themselves for the occasional 20 minutes before revving up again for more clouds of noise and chaos. Apparently, the police ended the party for them eventually, but you could still hear pockets of teenage revelry in the distance.

Then just as I fell asleep, a burglar alarm went off opposite. O noise!

I have such a tiny back yard, but so much happens in it. I looked out of the bathroom window about an hour ago, and a sparrow was having a bath in a tin tray of water I'd put out for the birds. It started with a sip or two of water, then jumped in and had a good old splash about. I stood stock still to watch. It was so funny and joyous that I burst out laughing. Finally, it's feathers drenched, it flew off to dry in the sunshine.