Definition of Impossible...

... is trying to start off this blog post, telling you about something so natural and beautiful.  Because I am married to a walking, talking sexual innuendo.  Plus, I've got a mind like a 12 year old schoolboy too, the slightest whiff of a double entendre and that's me done #filth.

So, there's a pair of tits nesting in my garden.  You see?  SEE?  Can you imagine the conversations we've had about this over the last few days?  Especially when he has - as a result - gone out and bought 'seed' 'nuts' and 'fat balls' for said tits...  *facepalm*

But in all seriousness.  We have a small tree at the bottom of the garden.  The garden was big anyway but we cleared a good ten foot depth of bushes and prickly shizzle from the bottom when we moved in, and slap bang in the middle was this tree.  It's not a lilac but the flower is similar?  And it's been a bone of contention, and has divided family and friends as to whether to keep it or chop it down.  So we've worked around it, trampoline to one side, shed and decking to the other.   Mr G wanted rid because - and I quote - 'I can't have my pub there with that tree in the way'.  Yes, Mr G wants a shedpub.   After the storms, it seems that this tree has been wrecked, and I conceded - the now broken tree can go. 

The kids had bought bird boxes from the school fair that the pupils had made from scrap wood, and we have had them up for a few years - for decoration really, never thinking they'd be used.  Last year, something appeared to be nesting in there, and then there was an egg.  To me, it looked like a mini egg, and although Mr G swears blind that it wasn't a mini egg, and he isn't winding me up, to this day I remain unconvinced, because the man doesn't know the meaning of the word 'serious'.  He called me out yesterday and said 'The tree has to stay'.  We watched and waited and there's a male and a female blue tit in and out of there.  I have no idea how he knows that, but he likes his birds (snort) does Mr G.  He can tell what species a bird is from stupid distances.  Me?  If it's got wings, it flies and has the potential to crap on you or your line drying washing, it's a 'bird'.  I don't need to know the species or sex of it.  I can identify seagulls, magpies and pigeons.  That's it.  I even have problems with chickens.  And hens.  Don't get me started.  I feel stupid enough as it is. 

He checked when they had both flown off and they've started making a nest. 

Box

Nest...

Awwwww!

Tit.  Fat balls.  I know...

I thought this was really sweet anyway, we attract a lot of birds to the garden and Mr G probably spends more money on fat balls and seeds for them over the year than he does on presents for me.  It's lovely to watch them and hear them singing every morning and every evening though, especially knowing that garden birds have been on the decline recently, it's nice to know we're doing our bit :-)

And the final word on the matter has to go to my daughter...

Cait:   Eeeeeeeew, are they having, like (because they all say 'like' every other word these days, like) bird sex in there?  How can they even do that?  How is that even like possible?   Eeeeeeeeeeeeew!

Says it all... the apple hasn't fallen too far from the tree there, either...