There's a magpie that ignores me when I knock on the window, it flies away and dips right back, its chatter reminds me of an evil toy train, starting up and stopping, over and over and over. I think of chapter seven of my book, Helen Fleet:
Can’t sleep for the clenching pain in my spine and legs. The birds have started. They’re like electronic gadgets set on a timer. They start off one by one and you can’t switch them off: a pigeon, a woodpecker then the din of the crows. I hate them all. I can’t stop thinking about Valerie’s blue lips.
I think she will die soon.