A Rather Shitty Situation
The sweet little birdies nesting in our porch? The birdies whose cheeping greets the dawn, whose wee fluffy babies' pink-puffy-heart cheeping fills the early morning air? The mommy and daddy birds whose industrious nurturing entertains and educates the tots on a daily basis? Those birds?
They have developed diarrhoea. Yes. Birdie trots. Shit on wings.
I step out my front door first thing in the morning, and the shittage - it's astonishing. The chair (metal, thank God) is spattered with white and black. The rail behind said chair is encrusted with a solid layer, and the porch deck? The porch deck has been strafed. White splats, each with its lumpen black nucleus, dot the entire porch.
Something has to be done.
Back into the house, haul out a rarely-used bucket. While it fills with steaming hot soapy water, dig out the rubber gloves and cleaning rags. Which will be turfed immediately after use. This is no time for environmentally friendly reusing, nuh-uh, but paper towels sure won't be up to this job.
Pick up the bucket and swing it out of the sink, only to be reminded why this particular vessel has been unused for so long. It'd be that inch-wide hole in the bottom. Yes. The tots scamper into the kitchen at my cry of dismay.
"Why is your dress all wet, Mary?"
Quick empty foundering bucket into the sink. Mop floor. Go upstairs. Change. Return to kitchen with new, hole-free bucket (aka the plastic garbage bin from the bathroom).
Out we all go to the porch, tots, bucket, rags, rubber gloves, and cordless phone. "I'm going to clean this bird poop up, guys. You play on that side, all right?" (This is a treat. My neighbours have to put up with a lot without surrendering their territory to the marauding tots, so I've taught the children that they're never to go onto the other side. No problem keeping them there, then - forbidden fruit, and all that.)
Don the rubber gloves (which will also be turfed immediately after this vile task is over), commence to scrub. As my avian friends chirrup happily overhead. While I'm scrubbing, Darcy arrives in his dad's bike trailer.
"Hey, Darcy!" George's clear, high voice carries effortlessly across the street. "Hey, Darcy! Wanna come watch Mary clean up the bird poop?"
Darcy doesn't hear over dad's snort. "WHAT?"
"WANNA COME WATCH MARY CLEAN UP THE BIRD POOP?"
This he hears. So do a couple of neighbours. Heads pop around porch railings. Ho, ho, ho. This is even better than the burning taco incident.
"Bird poop??? OH, YEAH!!!"
Do I know how to entertain the tots, or what?
A few minutes later, the task is complete. I throw now filthy water into the garden, toss rags and gloves into the bucket, herd the tots into the house, and reach for the cordless phone.
Which has a huge dollop of bird shit right on the earpiece.
Those sweet wee puffs of fluff just better get some feathers and flight lessons in pretty damned quick, because my clock, she's ticking... Lucky for them that I am fundamentally incapable of harming a baby of any description. So far.