I meant to buy these two big birds last summer, but never got round to it, then it was too late and they were gone. Flown. I’d kicked myself everyday, until two weeks ago when I turned around in Dunelm and was overjoyed to see the returning flock had migrated back to roost. A sure sign of Spring on the way.

While a little girl was getting over emotional amongst the flamingos, I turned to her mum and said “I feel exactly the same way. It never leaves you”. I waded in and picked out two with the least intimidating eyes and carried them, arms outstretched, down the stairs by the necks. People were impressed. I didn’t look them in their eyes, but I could smell an aroma of admiration. There was a brief friendly exchange with a lady with a pond, I lost her however when I said they were staying indoors, that they were going in the jungle room. She couldn’t comprehend. I curtseyed and carried on.

Now, it says on the labels that they are Herons, but I know a little bit about long-legged water birds. I shared a pontoon with a heron for ten years when I lived on a boat in London and I also became familiar with the symbolism of storks, (good luck, fertility and prosperity), as they were everywhere when I lived in Hong Kong. These are storks. I’m in no doubt.

Got them home and Begonia was not quite sure, I’m certain she never saw any storks in the garden centre and she hasn’t even spotted the wood pigeon that sits on the yarden wall yet, so I don’t think they ignited her natural cat instincts to kill. To be honest I don’t think many of her natural cat instincts have been ignited, she still doesn’t know how doors work.

They did look good in the jungle room, but I had to stand them back up five times in five minutes, so I decided they were going in the Blanche Devereaux Big Bedroom. They are very Golden Girls 80’s Miami and it would motivate me to finally paint the walls and finish at least one room in the whole house renovation.

Ten navy blue walls later and The Big Birds don’t look right in The Big Bedoom. Bloody hell. However, they happen to look right at home in The Hong Kong Bird Suite, of course they do.

I never intended to turn the ‘body room’ into a ‘bird room’. It was years, decades actually, before I could even say the word “bird” after the most harrowing and humiliating job interview of my life. I was about 26 and although I was extremely fearless and already successful in a theatre and TV career, I also secretly suffered from crippling attacks of morbid social anxiety (nobody used that term back then). I was ravenous for excitement and experiences and desperate to get to a dream life in London, so I applied for a vacancy on a show that was way below my abilities and got an interview immediately.

It was the mid 90’s and I wore an electric magenta velvet trouser suit. An outfit that would get you beaten up in any other city in England but no one would bat an eyelid in London. I longed for that level of invisibility and liberty. The new show was based on the shitrag magazine Loaded. I mean Christ, I was a militant vegan feminist, what could go wrong? Well, I felt completely normal in reception, I was an experienced and respected researcher at the BBC, and it should have been a walk in the park. Well well, as I walked up the glass and steel stairs with the friendly young woman who had come to take me into the office for the interview, the thing, that monstrous thing started. It started in my legs, the bones turned to cold treacle and by half way up the stairs they were buckling and shaking so violently I had to haul my body to the top with both hands on the banister. I knew I was careering into a high speed car crash, I knew this whole situation had turned futile, I should have turned around and walked back down the stairs, but I couldn’t feel my legs, so instead I put my foot down and head on we hurtled.

Sitting behind a big boardroom table in the office was a classic telly wanker, too young for his status, too big for boots, educated beyond his intelligence and destined to go far at Chanel Four. It didn’t matter anyway, because the fear had taken hold of me by the throat by now and was squeezing so tight my face had turned the same colour as my suit, all I could think about was the item I had just done for a daytime show on breeding prize budgerigars with The World’s Strongest Man - Geoff Capes. Instead of talking about Marc Almond or the latest cool comedian I had just booked, I answered every question with “BIRDS”.

“Birds”. “Birds”. “Birds”. That’s all I said. “Birds”. I just kept saying “Birds”. Well well well, The wanker’s hands were on the back of his big wanky head by now and the lovely lady, who was clearly trying to quantify the CV with the treacle pudding in front of her, was trying her absolute best to help me, I could see the fear and confusion in her eyes, but no. The best and last answer I could manage was “there’s a lot about budgies that people don’t know”. Thank you very much. I left my dead legs by the chair and into the London night I took flight.

That experience, and “BIRDS” became a code word for me, representing lost opportunities as a result of pointless, violent social anxiety, however time, a lot of time, has eased the pain and there have been so many more humiliations since then that I think, subconsciously, I’ve completely overcome the “BIRDS” element of my psyche and I’m now over compensating - what’s it called? - aversion therapy. I’ve finally landed and I’m undergoing intensive self-helped Aviation Therapy?

Well, it’s clearly working as I’m now hoarding BIRDS in what was the worst room in the whole house to renovate. It was rotten, filthy, gloomy and had been painted ‘Night Terror Red’ by the previous resident, more sad goth than pure evil, however, more importantly, there was an undeniable, “it’s definitely what it is”, “are you sure?”, “yes I’m sure”, pool of body-shaped juice from a long dead Victorian glued to the floorboards under the rancid carpet. You could see the feet.

There was no doubt what it was and no way round the fact it couldn’t stay there. It took months of chipping, soaking, scraping, soaking, scraping, soaking and scraping with my little wallpaper scraper. I spent nights alone in the gloom on my knees scraping and sweeping inch-sized bits of body into my over-worked dustpan that had seeped into some thin layer of hessian flooring and adhered like resin on the wooden boards. One night the madness set in and I thought I would lay down on top of the stain in the same position as the body. Just to see. This was a mistake. I immediately felt my soul being feroceously sucked out of my still living body and my head spin violently in a rush towards the open jaws of Beelzebub. I was up off the floor and down the stairs like a demonic whippet. Didn’t do that again.

Once the body was gone, I painted the room white and papered it cream. It was a far cry from the satanic red, but not far enough. I’d used a traditional Chinese print on the walls, the one where the cruel father figure stops his daughter going off on a boat with the man of her choice. I felt the burden of her tortured soul so covered the whole thing with flamingos.

First renovation with traditional Chinese print Wallpaper.

Second renovation with Flamingo Wallpaper.

Even they hadn’t come without a fight, no wonder everyone’s riddled with anxiety, you can’t turn around without bloody “BIRDS”. I just wanted to quietly and peacefully rid my dead-body room of misogynistic old men on bridges under willow trees, I just wanted to gently buy flamingo wallpaper, not possible, the most toxic cashier in B&Q had started a row with me over nothing, here we go again, and I was so offended I stormed out (again), walked round the front of the shop and stormed straight back in (again) to return the wallpaper. When I was asked for the reason, I said the streak of venom on till number 2 had infected the flamingos with spite and I would not be able to rest in bed as she’d poisoned all the BIRDS.

I have taught myself how to overcome the paralysing social anxiety and crippling stage fright with various techniques (which I’ll tell you about in another post), but one of the many small ways was learning the importance of immediately hurling other people’s bad behaviour right back in their faces. It works! Everytime! The lovely lady on the customer services desk shared in my outrage, Bitchy Poo has mysteriously disappeared (off sick apparently) and I started a decorative thematic therapeutic murmuration that is now my favourite room in the house.

I found a vintage wardrobe with marquetry birds that I am still debating whether to paint or not. I then started a phase of ‘middle-of-the-night’ buying brass birds on eBay that I’d forget I’d bought, until a man appeared at the front door holding a big brass owl and requiring a signature. Lamps arrived, ornaments came and went and I think I reached peek BIRD contentment with my peacock duvet set.

I don’t know if it represents my state of mind, that I have always been on the move and joked about my twigs being strewn around the wild, but I certainly feel like I’ve released the birds and come home to roost. Me, me forever nest and me little fluffy chick.

Begonia cat in Peacock Duvet. “Morning”.

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