The Barefoot Diary: Sunday 17th March
This final post in the ‘Barefoot Diary’ series has been a long time in coming; emerging from notes hastily scrawled a full month ago! I’ve had several difficult things going on, so squeezing a few words out in snatched moments has been the best way forward. But here it is at last - Sunday!
“The kid is not my son!”
It’s late morning; already a fully fledged day. Since awakening, Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’1 has been playing relentlessly in my head, on loop, and I’m not sure why! I accept the bizarre, and step outside; all the time contemplating the paternity suit against the singer. . . is Billie Jean making a false claim in order to secure child maintenance from the singer? Hmmmm. . . that’s what he’s alleging. It’s funny how I have known this song almost all my life, but only really listened to the lyrics recently. I had just grown up thinking it was a banging tune from the early 80s. Before I could understand what the song was about, I was aware of those feisty violins replying to the protestation that “the kid is not my son.” Their unsettling retort bored right through me, giving me goosebumps which I couldn’t explain. . .
Warmth
‘Billie Jean’s’ tight grip relaxes, and in a startlingly rapid cross-fade, I notice the chatter of sparrows around me, accompanied by the jubilant bubble, squeaks, rattles and wheeees of starlings. I am present now, with Billie Jean a distant memory. I turn my head to slide the door closed behind me, feeling the warmth of a single sun ray on the back of my neck.
There is a barely tangible warmth to the grass; ever so slight, but definitely there; sun-stirred. A warmth that has eluded the soil for many months now. There has been rain in the night, now bringing a morning-after freshness to the garden. As I wiggle and scrunch my toes, revelling in this new found tepidity, I spy my first worm of the year! It’s protruding from the giving soil, which has been hard and unyielding so far this year; wriggling. . . exposing a tiny segment of vulnerable pale pink skin to the world. Testing to see if it’s ok to come out now. . . now that the frost has lifted.
Davy’s little sister?
There’s a flash of rosy buff wing as a collared dove passes overhead, en route to the House of Glack’s tree-lined driveway. It trumpets a high-pitched nasal nheuuu nheuuu before alighting on a branch.
A difficult sound to transcribe.2
The best way I can describe it is thus: the dove exhibits a note of surprise upon discovering it has a kazoo inserted up its posterior. . . The branch sways slightly under the weight of the bird as it settles. I used to do a mean collared dove impression, and would spend ages in my parent’s garden calling to them, echoing their cry. Today, I attempt a response, but sound more like a black-headed gull with a bad case of syringitis. I’m rusty - well out of practice. I’ve long been fascinated by the rapid wheep wheep wheep of their whistling wings, as they flutter to their destinations; these pinky-mauve beauties of the dove world. A difficult colour to describe. . . somewhere between the pink part of a two tone office rubber and a raffle ticket. And then there’s the song. . . or should I say the relentless cooing. Unlike the five syllabled tak twa coos Davy. . . of the cushie doo,3 the collared dove repeats its three syllabled ‘coos’ on what seems like a never-ending loop. Could this be Davy’s excitable little sister, jumping up and down beside her mother, chanting tak twa coos, tak twa coos, tak twa coos. . . as her brother goes off to market?4
The confounded gate
There are vehicles on the move, along the House of Glack’s driveway. Dog walkers are about in earnest, parading the paths of the community woodland. I sometimes wish I could bottle the energy and enthusiasm of a dog on its walk. Priceless. A dog and its owner pass by the benign looking gate at the bottom of the park; a flurry of excitable movement and waggy tail, glimpsed between the metal bars. Note to self: look at the gate more closely.
I see that it’s shut.
Over the past couple of days I’ve been haunted once again by the eerie metallic wheezing, reminiscent of an old circular saw, carried on the wind from the direction of the woods. I remember Rob’s words, “It’s just the gate at the far end of the field, blowing in the wind. . .”
But I’m looking at the gate right now and it’s closed. . . firmly closed!
Once again, familiar prickles rise up my spine. . .5
Dunnock: the ‘Billie Jean’ of the garden?
Before heading back indoors, I give the birdbath a good scrub and rinse to the accompaniment of a dunnock, warbling a stream of liquid sound over to my right. lt’s hidden in plain sight atop the ‘robin’s shrub,’ which cascades over the fence, providing the ideal hang out spot for our garden sparrows. I was first introduced to the dunnock as its alter ego, the hedge sparrow. . . a beautiful unobtrusive bird, streaked with shades of browns and greys; usually to be found alone, skulking around in the undergrowth, beneath the shrubs and bird feeders. It was only later that I discovered that dunnocks are not in fact related to sparrows, despite their misleading nickname; they are in fact members of the accentor family, with needle-like beaks, compared with sparrows’ sturdy, grain -cracking ones.
This particular dunnock is perched on high, singing its wee heart out in bright, high-octane melodic bursts. It sounds almost scolding in its sharp insistence. It’s the sort of song that catches you unawares and makes you stop in your tracks, as you scan the nearby bushes for the singer. The first time I realised it was a dunnock singing, I thought, “Well be damned. It’s always the ‘quiet ones’!”6
Free love
When I spy a dunnock I immediately think of promiscuity and free love. . . These timid seeming, secretive birds, enjoy a gregarious sex life. Whilst some dunnocks display monogamous behaviour, others prefer having more than one partner on the go at the same time. Female dunnocks may mate with several males, resulting in broods of chicks with different fathers. It’s in the males’ interests to care for the brood, to ensure the survival and continuity of their genetic blueprint.
Males sometimes share territories, doubling up for increased protection, and almost inevitably, end up mating with the same female. One male tends to be the alpha of the pair; commandeering mating time with the female, and essentially stalking her to ensure she doesn’t run off to copulate with someone else. Nevertheless, the female wants to ensure that she can recruit the beta male for nest nursery duties too, enhancing the survival rate of the brood; so she looks for any opportunity to give her alpha stalker the slip, allowing her to sneak off for a dangerous liaison with her other lover. If successful, this is great news for the female dunnock in this ménage a trois, as she will have both males helping to raise her brood.
For more on polyandry, polygyny and polygynandry in dunnocks 😳. . . . see ‘The Dunnock: sex in the shrubbery’ by Mike Toms; an excellent, eye-opening (to say the least) article for the BTO’ s About Birds.7 As both male and female dunnocks are usually solitary birds with independent territories, having a promiscuous sex life works in the species’ favour; whilst at the same time giving us plenty juicy food for thought!
I give the dunnock a respectful parting nod, before turning to head indoors.
Billie Jean: a rethink?
After this brief but grounding intermission, it’s as if someone has pressed the play button in my head again, as ‘Billie Jean’ resumes in earnest.
I think of the dunnock. . .
Is Billie Jean a promiscuous female dunnock, attempting to secure the services of another mate to help raise her child??
I listen closely to the lyrics and my perspective begins to change.
Listen to the chorus. . .
‘Billie Jean is not my lover
She's just a girl who claims that I am the one
But the kid is not my son.’
She’s just a girl? Not very respectful. I think the singer doth protest too much in this vehement denial.
The bridge, in contrast, seems to be more soliloquacious in nature, almost confessional. . .
‘She came and stood right by me
Just the smell of sweet perfume
This happened much too soon
She called me to her room.’
Sounds almost like a plea of diminished responsibility, as BJ was too ‘like a beauty queen from a movie scene’, too overpowering with her feminine wiles; a siren. . . So the singer has little hope of being able to resist her. A moment of justified madness, on his part.
Or that’s what he reckons. . .
He should maybe take a lesson from the dunnock, on how to step up and care for his potential offspring.
The jury’s still out on this one. . .
‘Billie Jean’ by Michael Jackson, Thriller (1982). Released as a single on January 2nd 1983. It reached number one later the same month.
‘Wood pigeon.’
See ‘The Barefoot Diary: Saturday 16th March’ for a discussion of the cushie doo or wood pigeon’s call.
See ‘The Barefoot Diary: Wednesday 13th March’ for reference to the sinister wheezing emanating from the community woodland.
Brilliant . xxxx
This wee bird darts and scurries under the cover of the bushy aquilegia plants in our garden
But not as shy as she appears 🤔