I know where he be. Next door’s front garden, head cocked to one side, orange beak grasping an almost-ripe cherry from my tree. I look round at the tree: the slender branch, once perilously bowed under the weight of its fruit, is no longer burdened. He stares at me fiercely, doesn’t budge. The patio around him is littered with pits.
‘So you’re the villain who’s been eating all my cherries, eh?’, says I. ‘There was me blaming the postie. You’re a bold one.’
The Blackbird drops the half-eaten fruit. ‘Oh right. Your cherries?’ says he, skewering me with an unblinking eye, ‘Tell me then – who made you the lord and master of the trees?’
‘Fair point, Blackbird, but you could have left us some.’
‘You look well enough fed to me, big lad.’