by Steph Barton
The birds sing all night outside my window. There are no trees where I live but the birds are there somewhere, in the eaves maybe, or queuing on the telephone wires. I wonder if they realise it's the night-time or whether they are actually party birds. Perhaps my road is the greatest bird night club in the city, and beyond my curtains there are drunken, puking robins and great tit slappers who become blue tits when it's cold. Perhaps there are blackbird DJs with their groupies, the thrush and swallow, and a team of unloved wren bar staff who mop up as dawn breaks. In the morning the birds have hangovers and they finally go to bed.
Steph Barton lives in Manchester and is very nearly not a student. She blogs here.