by Ann C Evans

Created on: November 13, 2009

A Wily Old Bird

Off, off, off, no new builds!

The chant from the raucous crowd was music to my ears.

Having being propelled to within a few feet of an enormous bulldozer, I knew I had to strut my stuff and give a performance of a lifetime. There was no turning back now even if I wanted to. It wasn't a case of 'not in my back yard' but there were principles at stake.

You tell 'em Peggy, you tell 'em, goaded the protesters. In defiant mode I confronted the hostile beast with the words blazoned on my held high banner, 'PROTECT OUR COUNTRYSIDE'.

Out the way old girl, or you'll get hurt, shouted its driver. I felt my hold on the banner tighten and an unexpected feeling of exhilaration swept through my body. I sensed the crowd's agitation and was vaguely aware of the local press jostling to capture, no doubt, an exclusive of my impending doom.

Now, now, George our local bobby cried, Peggy you'd best be moving along; you've made your point but you are now breaking the law; the chap does have the law on his side and there's nowt we can do about it.

All the time my eyes were furtively scanning the skies, hoping above hope. With my wellingtons steadfastly stuck in the soft ground, I stubbornly ignored their pleas. I realized then, as from where this surge of inner strength was emerging. It was dear old Harold. We use to sit together and watch the sun, set over the fields with the dark silhouettes of the swallows flying round and round in circles, as the evening drew in; it was Harold who taught me the names of the dozens upon dozens of wild flowers which crept effortlessly into the fields, year after year. I felt him warmly smiling down on me with his approval.

Did you not hear me lady, MOVE.

Then suddenly I saw them; their timely arrival overwhelmed my expectations. A solitary bird came swooping gracefully down into the old barn followed by another, then another.

You're wrong George, I cried excitedly to the policeman, I have the law on MY side. Triumphantly pointing to the small group of swallows which had just flown in for the summer, from across the Sahara, I meticulously spouted the 1981 Wildlife and Countryside Act at him, They are a protected species which makes it an offence, to intentionally harm or take away, any swallow or its nest.

Peggy, Peggy, chanted the euphoric spectators over and over again; the media went into frenzy, jubilantly heralding, 'A Bloodless Coo'. For me, I just knew I had bought some time, if only for another year.

That's a load of bull - , bawled the driver of the bulldozer looking up to where I was pointing; just then a bird flew over and deposited an unexpected little present which landed fortuitously right on the top of his forehead.

No, I wouldn't call it quite that, I retorted mischievously.

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