“Come, let’s make a nest” said one Indian Myna to the other. “Oh where shalt we do so”, the female tweeted back. “What about that fist sized hole on the verandah at Number 49″. “Oh yes sweet birdy dear”….. and so they’ve been doing something in there for the last couple of months ferrying twigs and grasses and bits of plastic. They fly on to the glossy white banister and swivel their heads in a quick radar of the situation and before levitating the remaining three feet. I see a tail of feathers disappear into darkness. 

By now they’ve probably got a couple of televisions in there, a lounge suite and kitchen with a decent fridge, and some good bedding. Soon there’ll be sharp young beaks opening in screaming anticipation and I will have done nothing to stop the evil tide of the Indian Myna across the country. Yes I hummed and haaarrrrd about getting on a chair and sticking a tennis ball in the hole or something – but the blood does not run so cold in my veins, are they the global warmers of the bird world I wonder – can I continue to say this does not exist.  

Probably the most annoying thing is the early morning calls to say they have clocked on for the day.  On the banister an alarm of coughs and splutters – no canary song from a Myna – before the first flight back to the nest.  Warm and fuggy it would be in there – in the dark, or does some light filter through from cracks under the eaves – just enough to distinguish an outline – perhaps.  Even as I write a brown and yellow flash arrives on the railing, its yellow feet splayed like snowshoes. It looks left and right and in a spatter of wing disappears again. I don’t mind them myself, but others have a vengeant streak two miles wide, will run them down with a car if they can- I was once that passionate about doing away with Wattle birds when they used to wake me five a.m. …….